I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the Wren, and my Hair is bold, like the Chestnut Bur —and my eyes, like the Sherry in the Glass, that the Guest leaves—
Above Oblivion’s Tide there is a Pier And an effaceless “Few” are lifted there— Nay—lift themselves—Fame has no Arms— And but one smile—that meagres Balms.