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Has called from their eternal rest
The poets and the chiefs who blest
Old Europe in her happier hour:
Thou givest to the buried great
A citizen’s certificate;
And, aliens now no more,
The children of each classic town
Shall emulate their sires’ renown
In science, wisdom, or in war.

The bard who treads on Homer’s earth
Shall mount the epic throne,
And pour, like breezes of the north,
Such spirit-stirring stanzas forth
As Paulding would not blush to own.
And he, who casts around his eyes
Where Hampden’s bright stone-fences rise,
Shall swear with thrilling joint,
As German⁵⁵ did—“We yet are free,
And this accursed tax should be
Resisted at the bayonet’s point!”

What man, where Scipio’s praises skip
From every rustling leaf,
But girds cold iron on his hip,
With “Shoulder firelock!” arms his lip
And struts a bold militia chief!
And who that breathes where Cato lies,