Yours.

And circles trac'd upon the letter'd shore,

Beneath his willows rove th' inquiring youth,

And court the fair majestic form of truth.

Here nature opens all her secret springs,

And heav'n-born science plumes her eagle wings :

Too long had bigot rage, with malice swell'd,

Crush'd her strong pinions, and her flight witheld ;

Too long to check her ardent progress strove :

So writhes the serpent round the bird of Jove ;

Hangs on her flight, restrains her tow'ring wing,

Twists its dark folds, and points its venom'd sting.

Yet still (if aught aright the Muse divine)

Her rising pride shall mock the vain design ;

On sounding pinions yet aloft shall soar,

And thro' the azure deep untravel'd paths explore.

Where science smiles, the Muses join the train ;

And gentlest arts and purest manners reign.

Ye generous youth who love this studious shade,

How rich a field is to your hopes display'd !

Knowledge to you unlocks the classic page ;

And virtue blossoms for a better age.

Oh golden days! oh bright unvalued hours !

What bliss (did ye but know that bliss) were yours?

With richest stores your glowing bosoms fraught,

Perception quick, and luxury of thought ;

The high designs that heave the labouring soul,

Panting for fame, impatient of controul ;

And fond enthusiastic thought, that feeds

On pictur'd tales of vast heroic deeds ;

And quick affections, kindling into flame

At virtue's, or their country's honour'd name ;

And spirits light to every joy in tune ;

And friendship ardent as a summer's noon ;

And generous scorn of vice's venal tribe ;

And proud disdain of interest's sordid bribe ;

And conscious honour's quick instinctive sense ;

And smiles unforc'd ; and easy confidence ;

And vivid fancy, and clear simple truth ;

And all the mental bloom of vernal youth.

Anna Letitia Barbauld, from "The Invitation: To Miss B--"