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Poem by Mark Akenside


On a Sermon Against Glory


I.

Come then, tell me, sage divine,
Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline
Toward immortal glory's throne?
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impartial voice.

II.

If to spurn at noble praise
Be the pass-port to thy heaven,
Follow thou those gloomy ways;
No such law to me was given,
Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me
Faring like my friends before me;
Nor an holier place desire
Than Timolean's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. 



Mark Akenside


Mark Akenside's other poems:
  1. On Lyric Poetry
  2. Ode 4. To a Gentleman whose Mistress had married an Old Man
  3. To The Honourable Charles Townshend: From The Country
  4. For a Column at Runnymede
  5. Ode 9. To Sleep


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