Classic Poem

Farewell , Renown! Too fleeting flower,
That grows a year to last an hour; —
Prize of the race's dust and heat,
Too often trodden under feet, —
Why should I court your " barren dower?"

Nay; — had I Dryden's angry power, —
The thews of Ben, — the wind of Gower, —
Not less my voice should still repeat,
" Farewell, Renown!"

Farewell! — Because the Muses' bower
Is filled with rival brows that lower; —
Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet,
The Bard, that " pays," must please the street; —
But most ... because the grapes are sour, —
Farewell, Renown!