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.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-change-of-masters-at-a-great-public-school/
