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Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven !—but thou, alas!
Of men who never felt the sacred glow
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds;
Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven-
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies :