Inheritance

THERE lived a man who raised his hand and said, "I will be great!" And through a long, long life he bravely knocked At Fame's closed gate.

A son he left who, like his sire, strove High place to win;— Worn out, he died and, dying, left no trace That he had been.

He also left a son, who, without care Or planning how, Bore the fair letters of a deathless fame Upon his brow.

"Behold a genius, filled with fire divine!" The people cried; Not knowing that to make him what he was Two men had died.