Part of the Ninth Ode of the Fourth Book
Lest you should think that verse shall die,Which sounds the silver Thames along,Taught, on the wings of truth to flyAbove the reach of vulgar song;
Though daring Milton sits sublime,In Spenser, native Muses play;Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay.
Sages and chiefs long since had birthEre Caesar was, or Newton named;These raised new empires o'er the earth,And those, new heavens and systems framed.
Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!They had no poet, and they died.In vain they schemed, in vain they bled!They had no poet, and are dead.
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