From Monticello’s verdant Brow,

What Eye hath scann’d Th’ Expanse below

Where glebe and farm, & forest-shade

Alternately in distance fade;

The red hill’s crest of spiry Pines;

And Mountain Ridge, whose long blue Lines

Seem pencill’d on the cloudless Sky;

And Village glist’ning white, and nigh;

What eye hath gaz’d on Scene so fair,

In the pure light, and Mountain air,

Nor felt it was a thought of pain

Never to gaze on it again?

From Monticello’s classic seat

What Pilgrim e’er bent willing feet:

Turn’d from its hospitable door,

Nor sigh’d he ne’er should pass it more?

For there doth Wisdom sit retir’d,

Whom hoary years have nigh inspir’d:

There Science holds Communion high

With the bright Wand’rers of the Sky,

or bends attentive to peruse

The Tablets of th’ Historic Muse;

And there the Doves of Peace are found,

And Freedom loves to tread the mound,

And drink upon the mossy Lawn

The Gale of Eve, and breath of Dawn;

Not the mad Nymph by Gaul ador’d

Grasping the bloody Axe, and sword;

But such as Phidias had design’d;

An Image of th’ immortal mind,

And sculptur’d into breathing stone

To si[t] [beside?] th’ Olympian Throne—