If there be aught for which I crave—
Aught in this world that I desire,
Besides a blest and peaceful grave,

It is a spark of Milton's fire:

It is to be renowned in song,

Such as shall draw the silent tear;

Such as shall haunt the memory long,

And echo sweetly on the ear.

'Tis an immortal wreath of flowers

Upon my children to bestow,

Pluck'd from Parnassus' sweetest bowers,

To blossom in this world below.