The sons of Odin tread on Persian looms,
And Odin’s daughters breathe distilled perfumes;
Loud minstrel Bards, in Gothic halls, rehearse
The Runic rhyme, and “build the lofty verse:” 
The Muse, whose liquid notes were wont to swell
To the soft breathings of the’ Æolian shell,
Submits, reluctant, to the harsher tone,
And scarce believes the altered voice her own. 
And now, where Cæsar saw with proud disdain [22]
The wattled hut and skin of azure stain,
Corinthian columns rear their graceful forms,
And light varandas brave the wintry storms,
While British tongues the fading fame prolong
Of Tully’s eloquence and Maro’s song. 
Where once Bonduca whirled the scythed car,
And the fierce matrons raised the shriek of war,
Light forms beneath transparent muslins float,
And tutored voices swell the artful note. 
Light-leaved acacias and the shady plane
And spreading cedar grace the woodland reign;
While crystal walls the tenderer plants confine,
The fragrant orange and the nectared pine;
The Syrian grape there hangs her rich festoons, [23]
Nor asks for purer air, or brighter noons: 
Science and Art urge on the useful toil,
New mould a climate and create the soil,
Subdue the rigour of the northern Bear,
O’er polar climes shed aromatic air,
On yielding Nature urge their new demands,
And ask not gifts but tribute at her hands.

London exults:—­on London Art bestows
Her summer ices and her winter rose;
Gems of the East her mural crown adorn,
And Plenty at her feet pours forth her horn;
While even the exiles her just laws disclaim,
People a continent, and build a name: 
August she sits, and with extended hands [24]
Holds forth the book of life to distant lands.

But fairest flowers expand but to decay;
The worm is in thy core, thy glories pass away;
Arts, arms and wealth destroy the fruits they bring;
Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring. 
Crime walks thy streets, Fraud earns her unblest bread,
O’er want and woe thy gorgeous robe is spread,
And angel charities in vain oppose: 
With grandeur’s growth the mass of misery grows. 
For see,—­to other climes the Genius soars,
He turns from Europe’s desolated shores;
And lo, even now, midst mountains wrapt in storm,
On Andes’ heights he shrouds his awful form;
On Chimborazo’s summits treads sublime, [25]
Measuring in lofty thought the march of Time;
Sudden he calls:—­“’Tis now the hour!” he cries,
Spreads his broad hand, and bids the nations rise. 
La Plata hears amidst her torrents’ roar,
Potosi hears it, as she digs the ore: 
Ardent, the Genius fans the noble strife,
And pours through feeble souls a higher life,
Shouts to the mingled tribes from sea to sea,
And swears—­Thy world, Columbus, shall be free.

The End.