I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Ah, tell them they are men!
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?