True Ambition

When I behold thee, blameless Williamson,
Wreck'd like an infant on a savage shore,
While others round on borrow'd pinions soar,
My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun;
Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun,
While thus she speaks: 'Those wings that from the store
Of virtue were not lent, howe'er they bore
In this gross air, will melt when near the sun.
The truly ambitious wait for Nature's time,
Content by certain though by slow degrees
To mount above the reach of vulgar flight:
Nor is that man confin'd to this low clime,
Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees,
And hears celestial echoes with delight.'