Some wily chieftain, building up a name, May fight for immortality and fame; Time may embalm his valour, or his art, And History shew the coldness of a heart, Which, emulous of grandeur and a throne, Acts for itself, "its own low self" alone; And, in the inner chambers of the mind, Broods over plans to subjugate mankind: There fondly bends each nation to his sway, That he may rule, and all beside obey.
"Vignettes in Verse"
Matilda Betham
Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows.
"The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
"Or even embalm them," said Abner, sharing his wife's grewsome humor.
"The So-called Human Race"
Bert Leston Taylor