Where are those honours? IDA, once your own,
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne;
As ancient Rome fast falling to disgrace,
Hail'd a Barbarian in her Cæsar's place;
So you degenerate share as hard a fate,
And seat _Pomposus_, where your _Probus_ sate.
Of narrow brain, but of a narrower soul,
Pomposus, holds you in his harsh controul;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new fangled rules,
(Such as were ne'er before beheld in schools,)
Mistaking _pedantry_, for _learning's_ laws,
He governs, sanctioned but by self applause.
With him, the same dire fate attending Rome,
Ill-fated IDA! soon must stamp your doom;
Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name.
HARROW, _July_, 1805.
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