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Why do we ask the Laurel here to glow? Is it that fame or glory blind us? No! But that it hath a spirit nobly bold, To bide the blast, or brave the tempest cold. Not train'd by art, or nursed in idle ease, Or taught to bow to what the world shall please, But independent, and to honor true, Might guard the weak, and charm the tasteful too.

One, too, there is, whose latent virtues claim Of constancy, the undisputed name; Who seeks, by shrinking in his favorite cell, The applause to shun, that he deserves so well; Yet all in vain, for few can fail to prize The hues that change not with the changing skies.

Wilt thou. Oh Sage! from cloistered study deign To heed our summons, and delight our train? "Cur moriator homo,"* might we say, Dum salvia crescit in horto," but the lay,