And from the earliest times advent'rous man On foreign traffic stretch'd the nimble sail; Or sent the slow pac'd caravan afar O'er barren wastes, eternal sands where not The blissful haunt of human form is seen Nor tree, not ev'n funeral cypress sad Nor bubbling fountain. Thus arriv'd of old Golconda's golden ore, and thus the wealth Of Ophir to the wisest of mankind. LEANDER Great is the praise of commerce, and the men Deserve our praise who spread from shore to shore The flowing sail; great are their dangers too; Death ever present to the fearless eye And ev'ry billow but a gaping grave; Yet all these mighty feats to science owe Their rise and glory.--Hail fair science! thou, Transplanted from the eastern climes, dost bloom In these fair regions, Greece and Rome no more Detain the muses on Cithæron's brow, Or old Olympus crown'd with waving woods; Or Hæmus' top where once was heard the harp, Sweet Orpheus' harp that ravish'd hell below And pierc'd the soul of Orcus and his bride, That hush'd to silence by the song divine Thy melancholy waters, and the gales O Hebrus! which o'er thy sad surface blow. No more the maids round Alpheus' waters stray Where he with Arethusa's stream doth mix, Or where swift Tiber disembogues his waves Into th' Italian sea so long unsung. Hither they've wing'd their way, the last, the best Of countries where the arts shall rise and grow Luxuriant, graceful; and ev'n now we boast A Franklin skill'd in deep philosophy, A genius piercing as th' electric fire, Bright as the light'ning's flash, explain'd so well By him, the rival of Britannia's sage. This is a land of ev'ry joyous sound Of liberty and life; sweet liberty! Without whose aid the noblest genius fails, And science irretrievably must die. ACASTO This is a land where the more noble light Of holy revelation beams, the star Which rose from Judah lights our skies, we feel Its influence as once did Palestine And Gentile lands, where now the ruthless Turk Wrapt up in darkness sleeps dull life away. Here many holy messengers of peace As burning lamps have given light to men. To thee, O Whitefield; favourite of Heav'n, The muse would pay the tribute of a tear. Laid in the dust thy eloquence no more Shall charm the list'ning soul, no more Thy bold imagination paint the scenes Of woe and horror in the shades below; Of glory radiant in the fields above; No more thy charity relieve the poor; Let Georgia mourn, let all her orphans weep. LEANDER Yet tho' we wish'd him longer from the skies, And wept to see the ev'ning of his days, He long'd himself to reach his final hope, The crown of glory for the just prepar'd. From life's high verge he hail'd th' eternal shore And, freed at last from his confinement, rose An infant seraph to the worlds on high. EUGENIO