Then a thought—“The key,” I whispered, lest I should be overheard,
And I sought the heart, unlocked it; found my poem—every word.
Oft revised it was, and polished, wore the features, too, of Fame;
And I read with strange emotion, just below inscribed my name.
O, it was a trying moment! If the poem I should claim,
I could mount upon the ladder to the topmost round of fame;
But my evil spirit yielded; for I could not rob the dead,
So I locked the sacred prison, and above it bowed my head.
Rather would I find engraven in a steadfast heart my name,
Than in shining words enroll it high upon the tower of fame.