'Tis true, in midst of all, there may arise
For man's society a sudden thirst,
A sense of hopeless vacancy which dries
The spirit with a loneliness accurst,
A longing irresistible to burst
The branchy brake with other birds to sing,
Or, as, from where in solemn shades immerst,
The beetle comes to wanton on the wing
Around my lamplight flame - alas! poor, foolish thing.
But here thou may'st associate, though alone,
With worthiest men, the best of every age,
Through whom the universe of thought has grown
To what it is - the noble, good, and sage.
How vain the fret, how frivolous the rage
For social rank, when thus e'en monarchs deign
In close communion gladly to engage!
Nay, more than monarchs - Still the Mantuan swain
His fadeless laurel wears - What crowned Augustus' reign?
A thing of gold - 'tis crumbled in the dust,
The crowns of sovereigns and their sceptres all
Decay and are forgotten. Who would trust
His fame to what fleet ruin must inthral?
Tombs will obliterate and columns fall,
Annals be lost, and nothing have remained
Of dynasties - The Conqueror of Gaul
And Lord of the World may yet have only reigned
By Shakspere's suff'rance - What hath all the rest attained?