Carved on the ’scutcheon of immortal fame.
What would he more? Let others reap the gain
That springs from genius’s creative brain—
’Tis ever so:—while grief and toil must win
The portals that to glory’s shrine let in.
But there are toils that win no high renown;
Griefs that the loftiest spirit can bow down:
And such were his, who, standing by that prow,
Felt the worst ills that fate on man can throw;
But felt them as a man, resolved to bear,