  On the high summit of yon rocky hill, Proud Fame! thy temple stands, and see around What thronging thousands press; and hark! the sound That fires ambition: 'tis thy clarion shrill. Amid thy path the deadly thorn is strew'd, And oft intwin'd around the wreath they claim; And many spurn at justice' sacred name, And "wade to glory through a sea of blood." Be mine to leave thy path, thy motley crowd, And, while to hear their names proclaim'd aloud Upon the brazen trump, the throng rejoice, I'll court fair virtue in her humbler sphere, More pleas'd in calm reflection's hour to hear The approving whispers of her still small voice. MOSCHUS. Vignette
|
|
