Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought—
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose—
All that a poet’s dream around Minerva throws.
LXXVII.
Bright age of Pericles! let fancy still
Through time’s deep shadows all thy splendour trace,
And in each work of art’s consummate skill
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race:
That spirit, roused by every proud reward
That hope could picture, glory could bestow,