Heav'ns! what a flood of empyréal day
My aking eyes involves! A temple soars,
Rising like exhalations on a mount,
And wide its adamantine valves expands.
Three monumental columns, bright in air,
Of figur'd gold, the center of the quire
With lustre fill. POPE on the midmost shines
Betwixt his HOMER and his HORACE plac'd,
Superior, by the hand of Justice. FAME,
With all her mouths, th' eternal trumpet swells,
Exulting at his name; and, grateful, pours
The lofty notes of never-dying praise,
Triumphant, floating on the wings of wind,
Sweet o'er the world: th' ambrosial spirit flies
Diffusive, in its progress wid'ning still,
"Dear to the earth, and grateful to the sky."
FAME owes him more than e'er she can repay:
She owes her very temple to his hands;
Like Ilium built; by hands no less divine!