Come forth, fair waters, from the classic spring,
And let me quaff your nectar, that my soul
May lift itself upon a bolder wing,
And spurn awhile this being's base control.
How many a cup of inspiration stole
The bards from out thy sparkling well, and sung
Strains high, and worthy of the kindling bowl,
Till all Aonia and Hesperia rung!
And on the green isles of the ocean sprung
A wilder race of minstrels, like the storm
Which beats their rocky bulwarks; there they strung
A louder harp, and showed a prouder form;
And sending o'er the sea their song, our shore
Shall catch the sound, and silent sleep no more.
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