Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, Or sacred Tivoli’s romantic glades; Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil’s tomb; Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga’s lonely wave, Swell’d the deep echoes of the fountain’s cave, Or thrill’d the soul in Tasso’s numbers high-- Those magic strains of love and chivalry! If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove, Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove, Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song, Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, Hallow’d by time, by absence more endear’d. And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might Each danger stemm’d, prevail’d in every fight-- Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind; Whose banners track’d the vanquish’d Eagle’s flight O’er many a plain, and dark sierra’s height; Who bade once more the wild heroic lay Record the deeds of Roncesvalles’ day; Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow, An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe; Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales, Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales, And ’midst those scenes renew’d th’ achievements high Bequeath’d to fame by England’s ancestry. Yet, when the storm seem’d hush’d, the conflict past, One strife remain’d--the mightest and the last! Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour Untamed Ambition summon’d all his power: Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there, And the stern might of resolute Despair. Isle of the free! ’twas then thy champions stood, Breasting unmoved the combat’s wildest flood; Sunbeam of battle! then thy spirit shone, Glow’d in each breast, and sunk with life alone.