He spoke; such fury sparkled in his face,
    The Buttery trembled to its tottering base,
    The frighted rats in corners laid them down,
    And all but P——­t was daunted at his frown;
    Firm and intrepid stood the reverend man,
    As thrice he stroked his face, and thus began: 
    “And hopest thou then,” the injured Bernard said,
    “To launch thy thunders on a master’s head? 
    O, wont to deal the trope and dart the fist,
    Half-learn’d logician, half-form’d pugilist,
    Censor impure, who dar’st, with slanderous aim,
    And envy’s dart, assault a H——­r’s name. 
    Senior, self-called, can I forget the day,
    When titt’ring under-graduates mock’d thy sway,
    And drove thee foaming from the Hall away? 
    Gods, with what raps the conscious tables rung,
    From every form how shrill the cuckoo sung![36]
    Oh! sounds unblest—­Oh! notes of deadliest fear—­
    Harsh to the tutor’s or the lover’s ear,
    The hint, perchance, thy warmest hopes may quell,
    And cuckoo mingle with the thoughts of Bel."[37]
    At that loved name, with fury doubly keen,
    Fierce on the Deacon rush’d the raging Dean;
    Nor less the dauntless Deacon dare withstand
    The brandish’d weight of Toe’s uplifted hand.
    [38]The ghost of themes departed, that, of yore,
    Disgraced alike, the Doctor praised or tore,
    On paper wings flit dimly through the night,
    And, hovering low in air, beheld the fight. 
    Each ill-starr’d verse its filthy den forsakes,
    Black from the spit, or reeking from the jakes;
    The blot-stain’d troop their shadowy pages spread,
    And call for vengeance on the murderer’s head.

CANTO THE THIRD.

    digito male pertinaci.—­Hor.

    [39]Shade of Boileau! (who told in deathless lays
    A choral pulpit’s military praise,)
    Thou, too, that dared’st a cloister’d warfare sing,
    And dip thy bucket in Castalia’s spring! 
    Forgive, blest bards, if, with unequal fire,
    I feebly strike the imitative lyre;
    Though strong to celebrate no vulgar fray,
    Since P——­t and conquest swell the exulting lay. 
      Not link’d, alas in friendship’s sacred band,
    With hands fast lock’d the furious parsons stand;
    Each grasps the whip with unrelenting might—­
    The whip, the cause and guerdon of the fight—­
    But either warrior spends his strength in vain,
    And panting draws his lengthen’d breath with pain,
    Till now the Dean, with throat extended wide,
    And faltering shout, for speedy succour cried
    [40]To them who in yon grateful cell repose,
    Where Greenland odours feast the stranger’s nose—­
    “Scouts, porters, shoe-blacks, whatsoe’er your trade,
    All, all, attend, your master’s fist to aid!”