FAME

Once, in a dream, I saw a man

With haggard face and tangled hair,

And eyes that nursed as wild a care

As gaunt Starvation ever can;

And in his hand he held a wand

Whose magic touch gave life and thought

Unto a form his fancy wrought

And robed with coloring so grand,

It seemed the reflex of some child

Of Heaven, fair and undefiled —

A face of purity and love —

To woo him into worlds above:

And as I gazed with dazzled eyes,

A gleaming smile lit up his lips

As his bright soul from its eclipse

Went flashing into Paradise.

Then tardy Fame came through the door

And found a picture — nothing more.

And once I saw a man, alone,

In abject poverty, with hand

Uplifted o'er a block of stone

That took a shape at his command

And smiled upon him, fair and good —

A perfect work of womanhood,

Save that the eyes might never weep,

Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep,

Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist,

Be brushed away, caressed and kissed.

And as in awe I gazed on her,

I saw the sculptor's chisel fall —

I saw him sink, without a moan,

Sink lifeless at the feet of stone,

And lie there like a worshiper.

Fame crossed the threshold of the hall,

And found a statue — that was all.

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