For those exist whose pure ethereal minds,
Imbibing portions of celestial day,
Scorn all terrestrial cares, all mean designs,
As bright-eyed eagles scorn the lunar ray.
Their's is the glory of a lasting name,
The meed of Genius and her living fires,
Their's is the laurel of eternal fame,
And their's the sweetness of the Muse's lyres.
D.—1795.