And circles trac'd upon the letter'd ſhore.
Beneath his willows rove th' inquiring youth,
And court the fair majeſtic form of truth.
Here nature opens all her ſecret ſprings,
And heav'n-born ſcience plumes her eagle-wings:
Too long had bigot rage, with malice ſwell'd,
Cruſh'd her ſtrong pinions, and her flight witheld;
Too long to check her ardent progreſs ſtrove:
So writhes the ſerpent round the bird of Jove;
Hangs on her flight, reſtrains her tow'ring wing,
Twiſts its dark folds, and points its venom'd ſting.
Yet ſtill (if aught aright the Muſe divine)
Her riſing pride ſhall mock the vain deſign;
On ſounding pinions yet aloft ſhall ſoar,
And thro' the azure deep untravel'd paths explore.
Where ſcience ſmiles, the Muſes join the train;
And gentleſt arts and pureſt manners reign.
Ye generous youth who love this ſtudious ſhade,
