And laugh at all the little strife of time."
Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above,
Each in his sphere the literary Jove;
And ye, the common people of these skies,
A humbler crowd of nameless deities:
Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind
Through history's mazes, and the turnings find;
Or whether, led by science, ye retire,
Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire;
Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers,