The myrtle branches wave above my brow,
And glorious memories throng around me now!
Thy very name was once a spell,—
A watchword in the earth—
With thee the Arts first deigned to dwell—
And o’er thy gentle hearth
The social spirit spread her gleaming wings;
And made it the glad home of pure and lovely things.
The snowy marble sprang to life
’Neath thy Promethean touch;