 | New Poems by George Crabbe |  |
For Miss Hoare
Speak not to me of lasting fame,
For I am not, like fame, to last.
It is, if praise, yet mixed with blame,
That but exists, and then is past.
No, rather here in this fair page
Let one, obedient to the call
That reaches hearts—her mind engage,
While this she reads—Let that be all.
For I am not, like fame, to last.
It is, if praise, yet mixed with blame,
97
No, rather here in this fair page
Let one, obedient to the call
That reaches hearts—her mind engage,
While this she reads—Let that be all.
I ask no more, 'tis Fame enough
That here awhile my verse shall live,
Without the Critics' harsh reproof,
Without the Honors they can give:
Here shall my verse by her be read,
Who partial will the lines peruse;
So shall they live, when I am dead,
And this shall be the fame I choose.
That here awhile my verse shall live,
Without the Critics' harsh reproof,
Without the Honors they can give:
Here shall my verse by her be read,
Who partial will the lines peruse;
So shall they live, when I am dead,
And this shall be the fame I choose.
| New Poems by George Crabbe | |