Upon the Poets Corner in Westminster-Abbey

Hail, sacred Reliques of the tuneful Train!
Here ever honour'd, ever lov'd remain.
No other Dust of the once Great or Wise,
As each beneath the hallow'd Pavement lies,
To this old Dome a juster Rev'rence brings;
No, though she keeps the Ashes of our Kings.
Yet you the Herald's idle Art disclaim,
('Tis yours to give, and not to borrow Fame)
No Vaunts of far-fetch'd Ancestry are here,
Nor dusty Trophies waving in the Air;
No blazon'd Metals spread their tawdry Charms,
And only Shadwell shews a Coat of Arms:
Though those who foremost of our Nobles stand,
Peers of the Realm, and Princes of the Land,
Croud to appear to your high Merits just,
And rear the Tomb, and place the breathing Bust:
V ILLERS is read with Cowley on the Stone,
And S HEFFIELD adds to Dryden 's Name his own.
And this in future Times shall be their Boast,
When all Memorials else of Fame are lost;
When Time shall have devour'd whate'er proclaims
The Grandeur of their now illustrious Names,
And levell'd, as successive Ages pass,
The proud Inscription and the sculptur'd Brass;
Your Sanction then Eternity shall give,
In Your immortal Lustre Theirs shall live;
As still Mecaenas our lov'd Theme we make,
And Honour Pollio for his Virgil 's sake.
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