ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS, AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.

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.