I laud them not ; but I must weep for all, Poor ’wildered Franks, beneath Heaven’s bright blue dome Who might have reaped home-harvests, but the call Of Glory, elfish idol, bade them roam, And here they lie. O ! if there be in France Wise for one hour to nurse a sober theme, Let such come here, and from this tearful stance, Spell the true meaning of their juggling dream, What thing, from reason’s sway divorced, is man, Vain man, whose epics swell the trump of Fame ? A monkey gamboling on a larger plan, A moth that, fluttering with a mightier name, Drawn by the dear seduction of his eyes, Bounces into the scorching flame and dies.