Since Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm[(2)] forsook
The peopled haunts of Genius, Art and Taste,
While doubting friends with apprehension shook,
And love upon his form fixed sad, regretful look.
On the broad green acclivities that round
The lovely lake of Canandaigua rise,
The groves in deep, majestic grandeur frowned,
Hiding their gloomy secrets from the skies,
And scarred and worn by storms of centuries,
When painted hordes, with streaming locks of jet,