Thomas Russell (1762–1788)

* * *

Oxford, since late I left thy peaceful shore,

Much I regret thy domes with turrets crown’d,

Thy crested walls with twining ivy bound,

Thy Gothic fanes, dim isles, and cloysters hoar,

And treasur’d rolls of Wisdom’s ancient lore;

Nor less thy varying bells, which hourly sound

In pensive chime, or ring in lively round,

Or toll in the slow Curfeu’s solemn roar;

Much too thy moonlight walks, and musings grave

Mid silent shades of high-embowering trees,

And much thy Sister-Streams, whose willows wave

In whispering cadence to the evening breeze;

But most those Friends, whose much-lov’d converse gave

Thy gentle charms a tenfold power to please.

* * *

In days of old, ere charm’d at length to rest

Stern Chivalry her idle spear uphung,

Sweet mid loud arms the Minstrel’s music rung;

In each proud castle, at the gorgeous feast,

Mix’d with bold Chiefs he sat, an honour’d guest;

Cheer’d with the genial rites, his lyre he strung,

War, Love, the Wizard, and the Fay he sung,

And fir’d with rapture each impassion’d breast:

Such were the strains, which in her livelier prime

Bright Fancy pour’d; but ah! they’re heard no more!

Yet is not Genius dead: the song sublime

Might burst in tides as copious as of yore;

But WANT, grim Monster, checks the raging rhyme,

And damps the Poet’s wing outstretch’d to soar.


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