Come then, tell me, sage divine, <br /> Is it an offence to own <br /> That our bosoms e'er incline <br /> Toward immortal glory's throne? <br /> For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, <br /> Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, <br /> So can fancy's dream rejoice, <br /> So conciliate reason's choice, <br />As one approving word of her impartial voice. <br /> <br /> If to spurn at noble praise <br /> Be the pass-port to thy heaven, <br /> Follow thou those gloomy ways; <br /> No such law to me was given, <br /> Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me <br /> Faring like my friends before me; <br /> Nor an holier place desire <br /> Than Timolean's arms acquire, <br />And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.<br /><br />Mark Akenside<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-on-a-sermon-against-glory/
