Chapter VII

Hew Atlas for my monument; upraise
A pyramid for my tomb, that, undestroyed
By rank, oblivion, and the hungry void,
My name shall echo through prospective days.
O careless conqueror! cold, abysmal grave!
Is it not sad—is it not sad, my heart—
To smother young ambition, and depart
Unhonoured and unwilling, like death’s slave?
No rare immortal remnant of my thought
Embalms my life; no poem, firmly reared
Against the shock of time, ignobly feared—
But all my life’s progression come to nought.
Hew Atlas! build a pyramid in a plain!
Oh, cool the fever burning in my brain!