?MISCELLAN EOUS POEMS. 173 O think not, thou, whose gold is hoarded, Whose bags with crowded treasure burst, That Nature has to thee afforded The eager soul's intensest thirst; There is an avarice, far beyond Thine aim most grasping--wish most fond. O dream not thou, whose every vein Is throbbing wild with fever'd love, That mad delight, .tha? l?leasing pain All other tumults soar above ! There is a passion, which can thrill The soul with transport wilder still. Warrior, chief, miser, lover---all, Come, bow your souls before the bard! For present recompense ye call, He for the future's high reward: As sculpture cold, your fame survives, While his, like painting, breathes and lives. To conquer with persuasive arts, When, soldier, all thy laurels wither, To build an empire over hearts, When king and empire sink together, To seize on Fame's enduring ore, When spendthrifts waste the miser's store; ......... ?Google
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