Fame Is The Spur That The Clear

Rich And Various Gems Inlay The Unadorned Bosom Of The Deep.

And Some Are Fall'n, To Disobedience Fall'n, And So From Heav'n To Deepest Hell; O Fall From What High State Of Bliss Into What Woe!

The Conquer'd, Also, And Enslaved By War, Shall, With Their Freedom Lost, All Virtue Lose.

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Through The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving. Apollo From His Shrine Can No More Divine, With Hollow Shriek The Steep Of Delphos Leaving. No Nightly Trance Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.

The World Was All Before Them, Where To Choose Their Place Of Rest, And Providence Their Guide: They Hand In Hand, With Wandering Steps And Slow, Through Eden Took Their Solitary Way.