Hew Atlas for my monument; upraise A pyramid for my tomb, that, undestroyed By rank, oblivion and the hungry void, My name shall echo through prospective days. O careless conqueror! cold, abysmal grave! Is it not sad--is it not sad, my heart-- To smother young ambition, and depart Unhonoured and unwilling, like death’s slave? No rare immortal remnant of my thought Embalms my life; no poem, firmly reared Against the shock of time, ignobly feared-- But all my life’s progression come to nought. Hew Atlas! build a pyramid in a plain! Oh, cool the fever burning in my brain!