Angel voices seem repeating, singing, sloth and fear to shame,
"Hasten! favoured mortals; hasten upward to the House of Fame!"
Pausing now, in contemplation, I perceive that every nation,
From each calling, class, or station, sends its quota to our band;
Poets jostling grave logicians; botanists by politicians;
Soldiers marching with physicians; kings, with hermits close at hand
Miners, æronauts, and divers, pass before me as I stand.
Owen, with a fossil tusk or femur strides along, and Busk a
Jar has got of fresh Mollusca to sustain him in his toil;
Williams, fond of vermicelli, has a mess of small Sabellæ,