Come, O renowned power; thy glowing mien
Such, and so elevated all thy form,
As when the great barbaric lord, again
And yet again diminish'd, hid his face
Among the herd of satraps and of kings;
And, at the lightning of thy lifted spear,
Crouch'd like a slave. Bring all thy martial spoils, 710
Thy palms, thy laurels, thy triumphal songs,
Thy smiling band of Arts, thy godlike sires
Of civil wisdom, thy unconquer'd youth,
After some glorious day rejoicing round
Their new-erected trophy. Guide my feet
Through fair Lyceum's walk, the olive shades
Of Academus, and the sacred vale
Haunted by steps divine, where once, beneath
That ever living platane's ample boughs,
Ilissus, by Socratic sounds detain'd, 720
On his neglected urn attentive lay;
While Boreas, lingering on the neighbouring steep
With beauteous Orithyia, his love tale
In silent awe suspended. There let me
With blameless hand, from thy unenvious fields,
Transplant some living blossoms, to adorn
My native clime; while, far beyond the meed
Of Fancy's toil aspiring, I unlock
The springs of ancient wisdom; while I add
(What cannot be disjoin'd from Beauty's praise) 730
Thy name and native dress, thy works beloved
And honour'd; while to my compatriot youth
I point the great example of thy sons,
And tune to Attic themes the British lyre.
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