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From yonder realms of empyrean day
Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay :
There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine,
The few, whom genius gave to shine


and undiscover'd clime.
Rapt in celestial transport they :
Yet hither oft a glance from high

They send of tender sympathy
To bless the place, where on their opening soul

First the genuine ardour stole.
'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell,
And, as the choral warblings round him swell,
Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime,
And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.


“ Ye brown o'er-arching groves,

That Contemplation loves,
Where willowy Camus lingers with delight !

Oft at the blush of dawn

I trod your level lawn, Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly, With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy.”


But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth

With solemn steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of royal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go :
Great Edward, with the lilies on his brow

From haughty Gallia torn,
And sad Chatillon, on her bridal morn
That wept her bleeding Love, and princely Clare,
And Anjou's heroine, and the paler rose,
The rival of her crown and of her woes,

And either Henry there,
The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord,

That broke the bonds of Rome.
(Their tears, their little triumphs o'er,

Their human passions now no more,
Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb.)


All that on Granta's fruitful plain

Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd,
And bad these awful fanes and turrets rise,
To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come ;

And thus they speak in soft accord
The liquid language of the skies :


“What is grandeur, what is power ?
Heavier toil, superior pain.
What the bright reward we gain ?
The grateful memory of the good.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The bee's collected treasures sweet,
Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
The still small voice of gratitude.”


Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud

The venerable Marg’ret see ! “Welcome, my noble son (she cries aloud),

To this, thy kindred train, and me :
Pleased in thy lineaments we trace
A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace.


Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flow'r unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round heav'n's altars shed
The fragrance of its blushing head :
Shall raise from earth the latent gem
To glitter on the diadem.


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