Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/237

Rh To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,

With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;

Then share with titled crowds the common lot—

In life just gaz'd at, in the grave forgot;

While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,

Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the Herald's roll,

That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,

Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find

One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.

There sleep, unnotic'd as the gloomy vaults

That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,

A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,

In records destin'd never to be read.

Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,

Exalted more among the good and wise;

A glorious and a long career pursue,

As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:

Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.

Turn to the annals of a former day;

Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;

One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,

And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth.