To shape a form for glory’s shrine,
If, ceasing with the breathing bust.
He leave unwrought the brow divine.
How oft the lavish Muse has grieved.
O’er hopes thy early years inspired,
And sighed that he who much received,
Forgot that much would be required.
But not too late, if heeded yet,
The voice that chides thy mute repose,
And bids thee pay at last the debt