Clinging on thee, heart-aching man, dismay'd
By signs of death which all his hopes invade,
Thee on thy tablet prays to grave his name,
Still fondly pants to win some form of Fame,
Lifes airy semblance still through life pursues,
Nor gains till death, what, dead, he seems to lose.
For say, dear Memory, is it not a meed
Devoutly to be wish'd, of Virtue's deed,
To win thy blazon, and in Fame to last
When all beneath this sun but Fame is pass'd?
Embalming Glory sheds the rich perfume
That mocks the noisome horrors of the tomb,
Cheers drooping merit, and through many an age
(Oh! 'tis true Virtue's priceless heritage !)
Awakes the godlike worth that scorns Oblivion's rage.
Glory well-earn'd is Life's last flowering meant,
Presag'd by Hope, matures the fruit content,
And streaks content with colours of delight,
That bring by fits the gleams of Heav'n to sight.
But few are they who fill Life's little space,
This scarce-seen tablet, with such hues of grace,
That here times hence the worthy may repair,
To mark the models Truth pronounces fair,
Till emulous their genius glows sublime,
To fling abroad its brightest blaze on Time.
Oh! pang severe, the love of deathless fame,
When this fine warmth is struggling into flame,
And, richly dow'r'd, bemoans the smothering weight
Of dull-ey'd Folly, and invidious Hate,
Too heedless Friendship, too ungen'rous Power,
And all the crawling crafts which Fame devour.