Acasto

'Tis but the morning of the world with us And Science yet but sheds her orient rays. I see the age, the happy age, roll on Bright with the splendours of her mid-day beams, I see a Homer and a Milton rise In all the pomp and majesty of song, Which gives immortal vigour to the deeds Atchiev'd by Heroes in the fields of fame. A second Pope, like that Arabian bird Of which no age can boast but one, may yet Awake the muse by Schuylkill's silent stream, And bid new forests bloom along her tide. And Susquehanna's rocky stream unsung, In bright meanders winding round the hills, Where first the mountain nymph, sweet echo, heard The uncouth musick of my rural lay, Shall yet remurmur to the magic sound Of song heroic, when in future days Some noble Hambden rises into fame.