Iii

And once I saw a man who drew A gloom about him like a cloak, And wandered aimlessly. The few Who spoke of him at all, but spoke Disparagingly of a mind The Fates had faultily designed: Too indolent for modern times-- Too fanciful, and full of whims-- For, talking to himself in rhymes, And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, The idle life to which he clung Was worthless as the songs he sung! I saw him, in my vision, filled With rapture o'er a spray of bloom The wind threw in his lonely room; And of the sweet perfume it spilled He drank to drunkenness, and flung His long hair back, and laughed and sung And clapped his hands as children do At fairy tales they listen to, While from his flying quill there dripped Such music on his manuscript That he who listens to the words May close his eyes and dream the birds Are twittering on every hand A language he can understand. He journeyed on through life, unknown, Without one friend to call his own; He tired. No kindly hand to press The cooling touch of tenderness Upon his burning brow, nor lift To his parched lips God's freest gift-- No sympathetic sob or sigh Of trembling lips--no sorrowing eye Looked out through tears to see him die. And Fame her greenest laurels brought To crown a head that heeded not.

And this is Fame! A thing, indeed, That only comes when least the need: The wisest minds of every age The book of life from page to page Have searched in vain; each lesson conned Will promise it the page beyond-- Until the last, when dusk of night Falls over it, and reason's light Is smothered by that unknown friend Who signs his nom de plume, The End