Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,
Trampling, with heel that will not spare,
The vermin that beset her path!
Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,
Ye idols of a petty clique:
Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,
And make your penny-trumpets squeak.
Deck your dull talk with pilfered shreds
Of learning from a nobler time,
And oil each other’s little heads
With mutual Flattery’s golden slime:
And when the topmost height ye gain,
And stand in Glory’s ether clear,
And grasp the prize of all your pain —
So many hundred pounds a year —
Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!
Sing Pæans for a victory won!
Ye tapers, that would light the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun —
Who still shall pour His rays sublime,
One crystal flood, from East to West,
When ye have burned your little time
And feebly flickered into rest!