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So long had slept, that fickle Fame
Had blotted from her rolls their name,
And twined round some new minion's head
The fading wreath for which they bled—
In sooth,'twas strange, this old man's verse
Could call them from their marble hearse.
Had blotted from her rolls their name,
And twined round some new minion's head
The fading wreath for which they bled—
In sooth,'twas strange, this old man's verse
Could call them from their marble hearse.
The Harper smiled, well pleased; for ne'er
Was flattery lost on poet's ear:
A simple race! they waste their toil
For the vain tribute of a smile;
E'en when in age their flame expires,
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires;
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise,
And strives to trim the short-lived blaze.
Was flattery lost on poet's ear:
A simple race! they waste their toil
For the vain tribute of a smile;
E'en when in age their flame expires,
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires;
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise,
And strives to trim the short-lived blaze.
Smiled then, well pleased, the Aged Man,
And thus his tale continued ran.
And thus his tale continued ran.
