High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,   MAGNUS his ample front sublime up rears:      Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god.      While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod.   As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,   His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome;      Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,      Unskill’d to plod in mathematic rules.   Happy the youth in Euclid’s axiorn tried,   Though littie versed in any art beside;      Who, scarcely skill’d an English line to pen,      Scans Attic metres with a critic’s ken.   What, though he knows not how his fathers bled,   When civil discord piled 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,      While 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,      Th’ ATHENIAN’s glowing style, or Tully’s fire.   A manner clear or warm is useless, 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 he 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 promised 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, Brunck’s, or Porson’s note,   More than the verse on which the critic wrote:      Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale,      Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;   To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel   When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal.      With eager haste they court the lord of power,      Whether ’tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour;   To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,   While distant mitres to their eyes are spread.      But should a storm o’erwhelm him with disgrace,      They’d fly to seek the next who fill’d his place.   Such are the men who learning’s treasures guard!   Such is their practice, such is their reward!      This much, at least, we may presume to say—      The premium can’t exceed the price they pay.