VERSES, &c. THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime, In happy climes, where from the genial sun In happy climes the seat of innocence, Where men shall not impose for truth and sense, There shall be sung another golden age, The good and great inspiring epic rage, Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. Westward the course of empire takes its way; A fifth shall close the drama with the day; |