( 64 ) 
Behold, on your left, a white gate once fublimel 
But all human grandeur muft yield to old Time. 
That gate thro' which Anftey, when feiz*d with 
devotion, 
Forth ifTued tho* that was not ofc, I've a notion. 
Perhaps for the chirping of birds he'd no relifh: 
'Tis not heavenly mufic, 'tis true rather hellifti. 
I muft tell the truth, if I forfeit my neck for't, 
The fparrows are often much louder than Heck- 
ford. 
If I were the parfon, for fake of the fun, 
I'd (hoot all thefe birds, if I borrow'd a gun. 
Perhaps that might clam with the Canons, or Ru- 
brick, 
Or of glafs it might coft fome new pains, or a new 
brick. 
No matter i the parim muft pay, to a farthing, 
Repairs of the Church, in Accounts of Church- 
warding. 
Now enter the gate, and now put off your moes, 
For 'tis all holy ground, 't was the feat of that Mufe, 
That whilom the Trumpington Bard did infpire: 
Here he fung the Bath Guide Here fhe tun'd his 
fweet lyre: 
That poem delightful to youth and to fages 
Of this prefent age, and of all future ages. 
Alas ! of that Bard's rich poetical treafure, 
Here nothing remains, but of verfe the fame mea- 
fure. 
So 
