The poet turned aside
And flung upon thy breast the wreath of Fame,
And thou hast swept away perchance his very name!
The craven and the brave,
The smile of blooming youth, and grey-haired age,
The ragged peasant and the learned sage,
Have found in thee a grave:
The vanquished land and despot on his ear,
Went down beneath thy wave, as falls the glancing star.
Thou hast the soaring thought,