The blood. Who could endure it? who could

choose,

Without a struggle, to be swept away

From all remembrance? and have part no more
With living men? Philosophy failed here;
And self-approving pride. Hence it became
The aim of most, and main pursuit, to win
A name to leave some vestige as they passed,
That following ages might discern they once
Had been on earth, and acted something there.

Many the roads they took, the plans they tried.

The man of science to the shade retired,

And laid his head upon his hand, in mood
Of awful thoughtfulness; and dived, and dived
Again-deeper and deeper still, to sound

The cause remote-resolved, before he died,
To make some grand discovery, by which
He should be known to all posterity.

And in the silent vigils of the night,

When uninspired men reposed, the bard,
Ghastly of countenance, and from his

eye

Oft streaming wild unearthly fire, sat up;

And sent imagination forth; and searched

The far and near-heaven, earth, and gloomy

hell

For fiction new, for thought, unthought before ;

And when some curious rare idea peered

Upon his mind, he dipped his hasty pen,

And by the glimmering lamp, or moonlight

beam,

That thro' his lattice peeped, wrote fondly down What seemed in truth imperishable song.

And sometimes too, the reverend divine,

In meditation deep of holy things,

And vanities of Time, heard Fame's sweet voice Approach his ear-and hang another flower,

Of earthly sort, about the sacred truth;

And ventured whiles to mix the bitter text,

With relish suited to the sinner's taste.

And oft-times too, the simple hind, who seemed Ambitionless, arrayed in humble garb,

While round him spreading, fed his harmless flock,

Sitting was seen, by some wild warbling brook, Carving his name upon his favourite staff;

Or, in ill-favoured letters, tracing it

Upon the aged thorn; or on the face

Of some conspicuous oft frequented stone,
With persevering wondrous industry;
And hoping, as he toiled amain, and saw
The characters take form, some other wight,
Long after he was dead, and in the grave,
Should loiter there at noon and read his name..

In purple some, and some in rags, stood forth For reputation: some displayed a limb

Well-fashioned: some of lowlier mind, a cane Of curious workmanship, and marvellous twist: In strength some sought it, and in beauty more. Long, long the fair one laboured at the glass, And, being tired, called in auxiliar skill,.

To have her sails, before she went abroad,

Full spread, and nicely set, to catch the gale

Of praise. And much she caught, and much deserved,

When outward loveliness was index fair

Of purity within: but oft, alas!

The bloom was on the skin alone; and when
She saw, sad sight! the roses on her cheek
Wither, and heard the voice of fame retire
And die away, she heaved most piteous sighs,
And wept most lamentable tears; and whiles,
In wild delirium, made rash attempt,
Unholy mimickry of Nature's work!

To re-create, with frail and mortal things,

Her wither'd face. Attempt how fond and vain!

Her frame itself, soon mouldered down to dust ;
And in the land of deep forgetfulness,

Her beauty and her name were laid beside
Eternal silence, and the loathsome worm;
Into whose darkness flattery ventured not;
Where none had ears to hear the voice of Fame.

Many the roads they took, the plans they tried. And awful oft the wickedness they wrought. To be observed, some scrambled up to thrones, And sat in vestures dripping wet with gore. The warrior dipped his sword in blood, and wrote His name on lands and cities desolate.

The rich bought fields, and houses built, and raised

The monumental piles up to the clouds,

And called them by their names. And, strange

to tell!

Rather than be unknown, and pass away

Obscurely to the grave, some, small of soul,