Mark Akenside

Here you will find the Poem Ode XVII: On A Sermon Against Glory of poet Mark Akenside

Ode XVII: On A Sermon Against Glory

Come then, tell me, sage divine, 
Is it an offence to own 
That our bosoms e'er incline 
Toward immortal glory's throne? 
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, 
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, 
So can fancy's dream rejoice, 
So conciliate reason's choice, 
As one approving word of her impartial voice. 

If to spurn at noble praise 
Be the pass-port to thy heaven, 
Follow thou those gloomy ways; 
No such law to me was given, 
Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me 
Faring like my friends before me; 
Nor an holier place desire 
Than Timolean's arms acquire, 
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.