Classic Poem

A mes amis devenus ministres.

I've no wish to be any thing — no, my friends, no —
Places, titles, and crosses on others bestow!
'Twas not surely for Courts that by Heaven I was made;
Of the bird-lime of Kings, timid bird, I'm afraid.
'Tis my mistress's neat, rounded figure I need,
And the chat and the laugh, at a snug little feed
Just as if in my cradle the straw he had blest,
God in making me said, " In obscurity rest! "

'Twould but bother a rhymer who lives on the past,
If her favors Dame Fortune before me should cast:
For I whisper myself — if her crumbs, e'er so few,
Are allotted to me — that they're scarcely my due;
Or what poor artisan — toil, alas, as he may —
Better claim to these fragments than mine cannot lay?
Come, I'll rummage my wallet, nor blush at the quest:
God in making me said, " In obscurity rest! "

I was once carried up — 'twas in ecstacy's glow —
To the skies; there I gaze on our world here below:
But the height to my vision confusedly brings
Privates jumbled with Generals, subjects with Kings.
Hark! there's surely a noise; is it Victory's shout?
Hark! a name; what it is I can't clearly make out:
Ye, whose glory down there I see trailing its crest,
God in making me said, " In obscurity rest! "

Ne'ertheless, ye should know, pilots ye of the State,
That the honest man's worth at high value I rate,
Who, from palace or cot going forth with a sigh,
Takes the charge of the ship when the tempest is high
In the distance I bid him " God-speed! " — in my heart
For all high-minded citizens praying apart:
But to doze in the sun, on the shore, suits me best;
God in making me said, " In obscurity rest! "

You will have a superb mausoleum, no doubt,
I shall under the turf be laid quietly out:
At your grave a whole people in mourning will be —
'Tis the hearse of the pauper that's waiting for me
Where your star falls to earth why this thronging of men?
Yours or mine, what will matter the resting-place then?
'Tis a tomb, after all, that between us will test —
God in making me said, " In obscurity rest! "

From this palace, my friends, give me leave then to go;
My respect for your greatness I've called but to show:
Fare ye well! at the door my old lute I shall find,
With my old wooden shoes — for I left them behind
You have Liberty under your roof — yes, she's here,
Having hastened, your cause by her presence to cheer:
I'll go sing through the streets your beneficent guest;
God in making me said, " In obscurity rest! "