High in the midst surrounded by his peers,
M--ns--l his ample front sublime uprears;
Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at his nod.
Whilst 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 axioms tried,
Though little vers'd in any art beside;
Who with scarce sense to pen an _English_ letter,
Yet with precision, scans an _attic metre_.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil'd 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,
Whilst _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,