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What though in Maro's * fabled lore, To Troy's bold chief thine aid was lent, Who dauntless trod the infernal shore, Where sad and frowning shades of yore Their date of anguish spent,

Yet we, to Pluto's dreary coast, Passport from such as thee, disdain; We seek our hero 'mid the host, Where wails no grim and guilty ghost, On Heaven's unclouded plain.

Lo! watchful o'er his honor'd clay, A nation sheds the filial tear; And pilgrim's kneel, and patriots pray, And plants of glory drink the day,— Why dost thou linger here?

In war the laurel wove his crest, The olive deck'd his sylvan dome, The mournful cypress marks his rest, Dark Misletoe! the Druid's guest, Hence! seek some fitter home.