I would not have a hero’s fame,
His wreath of laurel soiled with blood,
Though shouting nations hailed my name
As age succeeding age ensued.
I would not have a poet’s praise,
Though sounded loudly through the earth,
If serpent-vice lurked in my lays
Or impious thoughts attained a birth.
Ah! who can touch the poet’s lyre,
And not its sounds his breast inflame,