Where are those honours, Ida! once you own,   When Probus fill’d your magisterial throne?      As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,      Hail’d a barbarian in her Cæsar’s place,   So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,   And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate.      Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul,      Pomposus holds you in his harsh control;   Pomposus, by no social virtue sway’d,   With florid jargon, and with vain parade;      With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,      Such as were ne’er before enforced in schools   Mistaking pedantry for learning’s laws,   He governs, sanction’d but by self applause;      With him the same dire fate attending Rome,      Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom;   Like her o’erthrown, for ever lost to fame,   No trace of science left you, but the name.