OUR VIRTUES ARE CARVED UPON OUR TOMBSTONES.
In attic bare and dreary,
With fingers blue with cold,
A man sat writing, writing,
For pittance small of gold.
His limbs were cramped, and trembling,
The light was low and dim.
For hours he had been writing,
And Hunger sat by him;
Sat even at his elbow
With taunting words of fame,
With promises alluring
That he would make a name.—
The morning light was breaking,
Still empty was his cot.
He seemed to be still writing.—
He had the world forgot.
In grave-yard he is lying,
“God’s acre” is the name.
Cold criticism killed him.
He fought too hard for fame.
Not colder is the grave-yard
Than was his attic bare,
When death had claimed his victim,
They found his “writings rare”
His name was now emblazoned
Upon the hearts of those
Who never did him justice,
Nor troubled at his woes.
Thus Fame, and Honor, Riches,
Oft come to man when dead,
Are proud to do him justice,
With laurel, crown his head.