And Grandeur’s evanescent ray;
And listening to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the Spirit of the Past—
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead,
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all Ambition’s kindling fire!
Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe
Soft odours on this desert air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,