So many worlds, so much to do,
So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee? For thou wert strong as thou wert true.
The fame is quenched that I foresaw,
The head hath missed an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law.
We pass; the path that each man trod
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God.
O hollow wraith of dying fame,
Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-enfolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name.
THE POET'S TRIBUTE.
LXXVI.
What hope is here for modern rhyme
To him who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshortened in the tract of time?
These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden's locks: Or when a thousand moons shall wane
A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, turn the page that tells. A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind.
But what of that? My darkened ways
Shall ring with music all the same; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise.