Ode on a Sermon Against Glory

COME 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.

If to spurn at noble praise

Be the pass-port 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 Timolean's arms acquire,

And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.

Mark Akenside