Classic Poem

ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. 1747 .

I.

  C OME then, tell me, sage divine,
  Is it an offence to own
  That our bosoms e'er incline
  Toward immortal Glory's throne?
  For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
  Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
  So can Fancy's dream rejoice,
  So conciliate Reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impartial voice.

II.

  If to spurn at noble praise
  Be the passport to thy heaven,
  Follow thou those gloomy ways;
  No such law to me was given,
  Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me,
  Faring like my friends before me;
  Nor an holier place desire
  Than Timoleon's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.