Spirits of noble beings, who, arrayed
In mortal clothing, once a proud part played
Upon this nether orb! If ye retain
No human sense of honor, joy, or pain;
If, fixed in seats of blessedness, ye deem
Earth’s goodliest pageantries an idiot’s dream;
Yet in your bosoms not in vain was sown
Deep as Life’s pulse the love of fair Renown;
For still as Age to fleeting Age succeeds,
Your track of Glory, your remembered deeds,