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Yet what avails the sanguine Poet's hope,
To conquer ages, and with time to cope?
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise,

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And other Victors fill th' applauding skies;
A few brief generations fleet along,
Whose sons forget the Poet and his song:
E'en now, what once-loved Minstrels scarce may claim
The transient mention of a dubious name!
When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast,
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last;
And glory, like the Phœnix midst her fires,
Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
 

Line 952. Note

“Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora.”

(Virgil.)

“The devil take that ‘Phœnix’! How came it there?” —B., 1816.