O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.

And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!

War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"