Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil’s tomb;
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga’s lonely wave,
Swell’d the deep echoes of the fountain’s cave,
Or thrill’d the soul in Tasso’s numbers high—
Those magic strains of love and chivalry!
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove,
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove,
Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song,
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long,