metre_.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France;
Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_,
Yet, well he recollects the _laws of Sparta_.
Can tell what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made,
Whilst _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf neglected_ laid;
Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame,
Of _Avon's bard_, remembering scarce the name.

Such is the youth, whose scientific pate,
Class honours, medals, fellowships await;
Or even perhaps the _declamation_ prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no _common_ orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope;
Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require,
The ATHENIAN's glowing style, or TULLY's fire.
The _manner_ of the speech is nothing, since
We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_;
Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_,
We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd.
Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone,
A proper mixture of the _squeak and groan_;
No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_, must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the _dean_.
Whilst every staring graduate would prate,
Against what, _he_ could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup,
Must in one _posture_ stand, and _ne'er look up_,
Nor _stop_, but rattle over _every_ word,
No matter _what_, so it can _not_ be heard;
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest,
Who speaks the _fastest_, 's sure to speak the _best_;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May safely hope to win the _wordy race_.

The sons of _Science these_, who thus repaid,
Linger in ease, in Granta's sluggish shade;
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie,
Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for, die.
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix'd within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts, affecting to despise.
Yet prizing _Bentley's[6] Brunck's[6]_ or _Porson's_[7] note,
More than the _verse, on which the critic wrote_;
With eager haste, they court the tool of power,
(Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour:)
To _him_, with suppliant smiles they bend the head,
Whilst mitres, prebends, to their eyes are spread.
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,