7
When lo ! decending to her Champions aid,
The Goddess short hand bright celestrial maid,
Clad in a letter'd vest of silver hue.
Wrought by his fav'rite Phebe's hand she slew,
Th' unfolded surface fell exactly neat,
In just proportions, o'er her shape complete,
Distinct with lines of purer flaming white,
Transparent work, intelligibly bright,
Form'd to give pleasure to th' ingenuous mind,
But puzzle and confound the stupid hind.
Soon as the wretch the sacred writing spy'd,
What conjuration sight is this he cry'd,
My eyes meanwhile the heavenly vision clear'd,
It shew'd how all his hellish looks appear'd,
Heav'n shield all travellers from foul disgrace,
As I saw Tyburn in the rudian's face,
And if aright I judge of human mein,
His face ere long in Tyburn will be seen,
The hostile blaze soon seiz'd his miscreant blood,
He star'd—turn'd short—and fled into the wood.
Danger dismissed ; the gentle goddess smil'd
Like a fond parent o'er her fearful child ;
And thus began to drive the dire surprise,
Forth from my anxious breast, in jocund wise,
" My son," said she, this fellow is no Weston,
No adversary child, to make a jest on
With ink sulphureous, upon human skin,
He writes indenting horrid marks therein,
But—thou hast read his fate—the halter'd slave,
Shall quickly sing the penitential stave.
Pursue thy route, but when thou tak'st another,
Bestride some generous quadruped or other,
Let this enchanted vehicle confine,
From this time forth no votaries of mine,
Let me no more see honest shorthand men,
Coop'd up in wood like poultry in a pen,
An at Trin Coll' when e'er thou art enlarging,
On Epping Forest, note this in the margin :
"Let Cambridge scholars that are not quite bare
Shun the dishonest track, and ride thro' Ware,"