And still, while future ages roll along,
Our Southern minstrels to thy court shall throng;
There lowly fall, and humbly beg thee grant
The sweet reward of their melodious chant;
A verdant laurel for each beaming brow,
To bloom through ages, as it bloometh now—
Or, if thou frown, receive thy chastening rod,
Thou, Bard's Mæcenas, and thou Poet's god!
[F] 16 lines above were written by Prof. E. Longley.