Is there a clime, where all these beauties rise
In one collected radiance to her eyes?
Is there a plain, whose genial soil enhales
Glory's invigorating gales,
Her brightest beams where Emulation spreads,
Her kindliest dews where Science sheds,
Where every stream of Genius flows,
Where ev'ry flower of Virtue glows?
Thither the Muse exulting flies,
There she loudly cries —