The fearful, frigid lays of cold and creeping Art,
Nor touch, nor can transport th' unfeeling heart;
Pindar, our inmost bosom piercing, warms
With glory's love, and eager thirst of arms:
When Freedom speaks in his majestic strain,
The patriot-passions beat in every vein:
We long to sit with heroes old,
'Mid groves of vegetable gold,
Where Cadmus and Achilles dwell,
And still of daring deeds and dangers tell.