Farewell to Leyden's lonely bound

Farewell to Leyden's lonely bound,
The Belgian Muse's sober seat;
Where dealing frugal gifts around
To all the favourites at her feet,
She trains the body's bulky frame
For passive, persevering toils;
And lest, from any prouder aim,
The daring mind should scorn her homely spoils,
She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame.

Farewell the grave, pacific air,
Where never mountain-zephyr blew:
The marshy levels lank and bare,
Which Pan, which Ceres never knew:
The naiads, with obscene attire,
Urging in vain their urns to flow;
While round them chant the croking choir,
And haply soothe some lover's prudent woe,
Or prompt some restive bard and modulate his lyre.

Farewell, ye nymphs, whom sober care of gain
Snatched in your cradles from the god of Love:
She rendered all his boasted arrows vain;
And all his gifts did he in spite remove.
Ye too, the slow-eyed fathers of the land,
With whom dominion steals from hand to hand,
Unowned, undignified by public choice,
I go where liberty to all is known,
And tells a monarch on his throne,
He reigns not but by her preserving voice.
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