Why was it that the thunder voice of Fate
  Should call thee, studious, from the classic groves,
  Where calm-eyed Pallas with still footstep roves,
And charge thee seek the turmoil of the state?
What bade thee hear the voice and rise elate,
  Leave home and kindred and thy spicy loaves,
  To lead th' unlettered and despised droves
To manhood's home and thunder at the gate?

Far better the slow blaze of Learning's light,
  The cool and quiet of her dearer fane,
Than this hot terror of a hopeless fight,
  This cold endurance of the final pain,—
Since thou and those who with thee died for right
  Have died, the Present teaches, but in vain!