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, yet 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 enforc'd in schools.)

Mistaking _pedantry_ for _learning's_ laws,

He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause;

With him the same dire fate, attending Rome,

Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:

Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,

No trace of science left you, but the name,