To Voltaire, with a Laurel-Branch from Virgil's Tomb

A T Virgil's tomb a sacred Laurel grew,
Nor sleep nor age its glowing verdure knew;
With undiminish'd leaf, and bough complete,
It guarded, as it grac'd, the hallow'd seat.
I touch'd it with my hand, and rested there,
Play'd with my hope, and rally'd my despair;
When from the tomb's recess a voice I heard —
" Approach, " it said, " for thou art here preferr'd;
Thou art the Sister of my destin'd Heir,
Whose martial brows the wreath of glory wear;
This Laurel is for him — to thee 'tis lent —
It is Apollo's gift , and my consent .
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