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          On wit and learning the just prize bestow,

          For fame is all we must expect below."

              The Goddess heard, and bade the Muses raise

          The golden Trumpet of eternal Praise:

          From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound

          That fills the circuit of the world around.

          Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud:

          The notes, at first, were rather sweet than loud.

          By just degrees they ev'ry moment rise,

          Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies.

          At ev'ry breath were balmy odours shed,

          Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread;

          Less fragrant scents th' unfolding rose exhales,

          Or spices breathing in Arabian gales.

              Next these, the good and just, an awful train,

          Thus, on their knees, address the sacred fane:

          "Since living virtue is with envy cursed,

          And the best men are treated like the worst,

          Do thou, just Goddess, call our merits forth,

          And give each deed th' exact intrinsic worth."

          "Not with bare justice shall your act be crowned,"

          (Said Fame,) "but high above desert renowned:

          Let fuller notes th' applauding world amaze,

          And the loud clarion labour in your praise."

              This band dismissed, behold another crowd

          Preferred the same request, and lowly bowed;

          The constant tenour of whose well-spent days

          No less deserved a just return of praise.

          But straight the direful Trump of Slander sounds;

          Through the big dome the doubling thunder bounds;

          Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies,