Sometimes ambition, brushing by, wou'd twitch
My mantle, and with winning look sublime
Allure to follow. What tho' steep the track,
Her mountain's top wou'd overpay when climb'd
The scaler's toil; her temple there was fine,
And lovely thence the prospects. She cou'd tell
Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antique;
But more advis'd to shun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit?)
And woo some thriving art: her num'rous mines
Were open to the searcher's skill and pains.