as the burst of cannon rends the skies,
The dire report through ev'ry region flies;
In ev'ry ear incessant rumours rung,
And gath'ring scandals grew on ev'ry tongue.
From the black trumpet's rusty concave broke
Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke;
The pois'nous vapour blots the purple skies,
And withers all before it as it flies.
A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore,
And proud defiance in their looks they bore:
"For thee" (they cried), "amidst alarms and strife,
We sailed in tempests down the stream of life;
For thee whole nations filled with flames and blood,
And swam to empire through the purple flood.
Those ills we dared, thy inspiration own;
What virtue seemed was done for thee alone."
"Ambitious fools!" (the Queen replied, and frowned):
"Be all your acts in dark oblivion drowned;
There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone,
Your statues mouldered, and your names unknown!"
A sudden cloud straight snatched them from my sight,
And each majestic phantom sunk in night.
Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen;
Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien.
"Great idol of mankind! we neither claim
The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame!
But safe, in deserts, from the applause of men,
Would die unheard-of, as we lived unseen.
'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight
Those acts of goodness, which themselves requite.
O let us still the secret joy partake,
To follow virtue ev'n for virtue's sake."
"And live there men who slight immortal fame?
Who, then, with incense shall adore our name?
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 music floats,
And on the winds triumphant swell the notes:
So soft, though high; so loud, and yet so clear;
Ev'n list'ning angels leaned from heaven to hear:
To farthest shores th' ambrosial spirit flies,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.

Pope.

[Notes: _Alexander Pope_. (See previous note on Pope.) The hint of this
poem is taken from one by Chaucer, called 'The House of Fame.'

_Depend in rows. Depend_ in its proper and literal meaning, "hang down."

_The youth that a