CXIX

If history, that feeds upon the past,
Reserve some corner of respect for me,
Where for a while the gaping years may see
A poet's fickle fortunes anchored fast;
No marble sculpture, or no brazen cast
Will tell me truly, unless there shall be
Hollowed within it, as a shrine for thee,
Some sacred niche. enduring while I last.
Thus let me have my monument designed:
A radiant form, almost sustained in air,
Whose face shall strive thy lineaments to wear;
Another form, mere man in shape and mind,
Turning his churlish back against mankind,
Forever kneeling to that lady fair.