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.