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The sister-Nymphs of song and science came,
And, 'midst the triumphs of the festal hour,
Review'd their glories on the rolls of Fame:
« Ye, who from fields of strife, and haunts of care,
Full oft retir’d to feed the lofty thought,
Ye, who to us preferr'd the duteous pray’r,
Great sons approach,” exclaiin’d the virgin band,
“ Rejoin our once lov'd choir :”—and Hermes wav’d
With ready haste, the Muse’s fav’rite train
Came from surrounding woods in order bright:
So shine successive o'er the azure plain,
At Hesper's call, the splendors of the night.
And first, the || Sire of Tragic Drama leads
His Grecian phalanx, o'er whose awful brow
The oak and ivy cast their mingled shades,
many a tale of horrid woe,
Save, when his shield attracts his alter'd gaze,
And S Fancy all anew proud Persia's fall pourtrays.
Instant Alcæus girds his loose attire, [twin’d;
s Alludes to his play of the Persæ.
Again with manly rage he wakes the lyre,
Its deep tones tell the grandeur of his mind.
Sacred his song still flows to Freedom's lore,
How gallant youths have dar'd, and tyrants bled,
Nor sleep they now, and moulder with the dead;
He sung : and laurel groves repeat the gen'rous ftrain.
Clad with pure grace, beyond what art bestows,
Comes meekly grave the * chief, historian, fage,
Who led his band thro' wilds and legion'd foes,
And thines the hero of his modest page ;
Who on the moral teacher, listning, hung,
How heav'nly truth should grace a heav'n-born
And, while he heard the dictates of his tongue,
Bade them instruct to latest times consign’d.
Ye taste his honey'd store, nor latent poison fear.
Lo! sweetly tripping o'er the fow'ry scenc,
+ Two Roman chiefs the gentle Terence lead, This wears the thund'rer's dread, majestic mien,
In that are wisdom's mildest charms display’d.
Musing behind, in loosely-flowing vest,
# He comes, who in fair Tufculum's retreat
Hung up his civic crown to letter'd reft,
While yet at distance rollid the storms of state.
Still, at each pause of step, they might descry
Near him is seen, who bade these tempests roll,
Who through sad ruin rush'd in quest of pow'r ;
But soon were reft the triumphs of his soul,
And foon his purple pall was drench'd in gore.
Array’d in robes of less ensanguin’d hue,
Such, as when Vier'ry hail'd the friend of Rome,
No wreath he boasts, but what in Gallia grew,
And round th' historian's brow will ever bloom
Thy hands, pure Truth, the beauteous story wrought, When Cæsar simply told, how Cæsar bravely fought.
Anon, || low-brooding mists involv'd the day:
The choir all figh’d-till, from the glooms of
The ignorance of the middle centuries is meant to be characterised by the mists, which involve the day.