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!