 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
The INVISIBLE.
By the Same.
What mortal burns not with the love of fame?
Some write, some fight, some eat themselves a name.
For some beau Frightful haunts each public place,
And grows conspicious for—his ugly face.
Laura, the rural circle's constant boast,
Sighs for the Mall, nor sleeps till she's a toast.
The priestling, proud of doctrine not his own,
Usurps a scarf, and longs to preach in town.
Ev'n Westley's saints, whose cant has fill'd the nation,
Toil more for fame, I trow, than reformation.
Some write, some fight, some eat themselves a name.
For some beau Frightful haunts each public place,
And grows conspicious for—his ugly face.
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Sighs for the Mall, nor sleeps till she's a toast.
The priestling, proud of doctrine not his own,
Usurps a scarf, and longs to preach in town.
Ev'n Westley's saints, whose cant has fill'd the nation,
Toil more for fame, I trow, than reformation.
B---, tho' blest with learning, sense and wit,
Yet prides himself in never shewing it.
Safe in his cell, he shuns the staring crowd,
And inward shines, like Sol behind a cloud.
For fame let fops to distant regions roam,
Lo! here's the man—who never stirs from home!
That unseen wight, whom all men wish to see,
Illustrious grown—by mere obscurity.
Yet prides himself in never shewing it.
Safe in his cell, he shuns the staring crowd,
And inward shines, like Sol behind a cloud.
For fame let fops to distant regions roam,
Lo! here's the man—who never stirs from home!
That unseen wight, whom all men wish to see,
Illustrious grown—by mere obscurity.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |