The Temple of Fame.
33
But, Mortals know, 'tis still our greatest Pride,
To blaze those Virtues which the Good would hide.
Rise! Muses, rise! add all your tuneful Breath,
These must not sleep in Darkness and in Death.
She said: in Air the trembling Musick floats,
And up the Winds triumphant swell the Notes;
So soft, tho' high, so loud, and yet so clear,
Ev'n list'ning Angels lean'd from Heaven to hear:
To farthest Shores th' Ambrosial Spirit flies,
Sweet to the World, and grateful to the Skies.
Next these a youthful Train their Vows exprest,
With Feathers crown'd, with gay Embroid'ry drest:
Hither, they cry'd, direct your Eyes, and see
The Men of Pleasure, Dress, and Gallantry:
Ours
