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The green young ivy, by its graceful clinging,
Pourtray'd fair Constancy and Faith sublime; And Flora's tribes, their lovely fetters flinging,
Held in sweet thraldoin all within that clime
Such bonds unfelt are worn.
Blithesome I wander'd through this world of treasure,
Deeming my spirit's home at length attain’d, Trusting such boundless joy would know no measure : Once more to me were Eden's blessings gain'd
O Love, how fair thy morn!
Lullid in sweet slumber, all my senses shrouded
By bright illusions that should never fade :
Life, light, the world is drear !Oh, stay, sweet dream; and yet, by mem’ry's pow'r,
Whisper again the language of that land, That I may tell thy charms in sorrow's hour
To the still ocean and the desert's sand,
Which thou alone canst cheer,
FA M E.
“Though fame is smoke, Its fumes are frankincense to human thought."
SOLDIER, why so madly rushing
'Midst the gleaming spears ?Why thy cheek with ardour flushing ?
Where thy human fears ?-Thou hast life or limb to lose,–
Life, and youth, and pleasure; Slaughter round her victims strews : Why so blindly treasure
Fame, famel-gory fame!
Stricken, while thy heart is beating
With a hero's pride,
Widowing some bride,
Trampled, rifled, gory; And the herd that
pass Reckless of thy story,
Shall the laurels wear!
Or, where Afric's sun is burning,
Fever'd, weak, and lone, On a bed of anguish turning,
Vainly thou mayst moanAll unnoted yield thy breath,
With no voice to cheer thee: Oh ! of all, a soldier's death Mocks his dream of glory
Fame, fame!-fickle fame!
Player, why that mimic seeming
Of a woe too big for words ?-Why that soul-impassion'd dreaming,
Pacing o'er the Thespic boards, Quick deep sobs, and passion's start
True as Nature-breaking From thy fancy-tortured heart, Fabled grief mistaking
For thine own-thine own!
Study's toil and nightly watching,
Daily wrongs and insults keen, Stigma to thy name attaching :
But to seem a king or queen ?Nol-I wrong thee !-Reckless thou—
King or Beggar playing; . With thy mind-illumined brow But one hope betraying
Fame, fame deathless fame!
Painter, wherefore ever straining
Eye and hand to image manLife's enjoyments all disdaining,
O’er and o'er thy work to scan ?
From whence thy patience springeth,
Fame, fame! -dear-bought fame!
Thou, to whom sweet Beauty seemeth
So divinely bright and fair, As from out thy canvas beameth
Something of her 'witching air Doom'd obscurely, ost, to sigh,
'Midst the fancied forms of grace That around thee scatter'd lie, Over one remember'd face :
Fame, famel-idle fame!