As the famed rod of Circe to brutes could turn men,
So the twigs of the Birch can unbrute them again.
Like the wand of the Sybil, that branch of pure gold,
These sprays can the gates of Elysium unfold—
The Elysium of learning, where pleasures abound,
Those sweets that still flourish on classical ground.
Prometheus's rod, which, mythologists say,
Fetch'd fire from the sun to give life to his clay,
Was a rod well applied his men to inspire
With a taste for the arts, and their genius to fire.