WHERE are those honours, Ida! once yow own, br When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne? br As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, br Hail'd a barbarian in her Cæsar's place, br So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, br And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. br Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, br Pomposus holds you in his harsh control; br Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, br With florid jargon, and with vain parade; br With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, br Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools br Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, br He governs, sanction'd but by self applause; br With him the same dire fate attending Rome, br Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom; br Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, br No trace of science left you, but the name. br br July 1805.