Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy!
Be still the poet's theme.
The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings, When glitt'ring in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town;
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, A thousand fit thorns downl
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span; Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
Campbell.
Antipater, of Tarsus, careful
