The Temple of Fame.
11
These ever new, nor subject to Decays,
Spread, and grow brighter with the Length of Days.
So Zembla's Rocks (the beauteous Work of Frost)
Rise white in Air, and glitter o'er the Coast;
Pale Suns, unfelt, at distance roll away,
And on th' impassive Ice the Lightnings play:
Eternal Snows the growing Mass supply,
Till the bright Mountains prop th' incumbent Sky:
As Atlas fix'd, each hoary Pile appears,
The gather'd Winter of a thousand Years.
On this Foundation Fame's high Temple stands;
Stupendous Pile! not rear'd by mortal Hands.
Whate'er proud Rome, or artful Greece beheld,
Or elder Babylon, its Frame excell'd.
Four
