Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/101

Here callow chiefs and embryo statesmen lie,
And unfledged poets short excursions try:
While Mersey's gentle current, which too long,
By fame neglected and unknown to song,
Between his rushy banks,—no poet's theme,—
Had crept inglorious, like a vulgar stream,
Reflects the* ascending seats with conscious pride,
And dares to emulate a classic tide.
Soft music breathes along each opening shade,
And soothes the dashing of his rough cascade.
With mystic lines his sands are figured o'er,
And circles traced upon the lettered shore.
Beneath his willows rove the' inquiring youth,
And court the fair majestic form of Truth.
Here Nature opens all her secret springs,
And heaven-born Science plumes her eagle-wings.
Too long had bigot rage, with malice swelled,
Crushed her strong pinions, and her flight withheld;
Too long to check her ardent progress strove:—
So writhes the serpent round the bird of Jove;