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Richard Graves (Ричард Грейвс) The Invisible WHAT mortal burns not with the love of fame? Some write, some fight, some eat themselves a name. For some beau Frightful haunts each public place, And grows conspicious for — his ugly face. Laura, the rural circle's constant boast, Sighs for the Mall, nor sleeps till she's a toast. The priestling, proud of doctrine not his own, Usurps a scarf, and longs to preach in town. Ev'n Westley's saints, whose cant has fill'd the nation, Toil more for fame, I trow, than reformation. B —, tho' blest with learning, sense and wit, Yet prides himself in never shewing it. Safe in his cell, he shuns the staring crowd, And inward shines, like Sol behind a cloud. For fame let fops to distant regions roam, Lo! here's the man — who never stirs from home! That unseen wight, whom all men wish to see, Illustrious grown — by mere obscurity. Richard Graves's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1221 |
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