  What good is Fame when I am dead and gone,
When in immarcescible regions
My temple rots and soul doth storm and mourn
As bones of mine adorn an early grave?
Who'll hear and know that I worked hard and long,
That twin sighs and tears storm'd me by legions,
My life, a sunless one—bleak and forlorn.
No ray of light whilst I in thralldom slave?
What good is Fame when I am dead and gone,
When in fenowed abyss', stark and cold,
I wend my solemn footsteps and atone,
Whilst Fame my brow doth crown with its renown?
Who'll know that heart and soul bled on and on,
That storm-swept aches and woes were mine untold,
My life a waste, from which there stole a moan,
No Aureole whilst I in sorrow drown?
What good is Fame when I am dead and gone,
When far and wide my praise is heard and sung,
And busts and marble-heads my deeds unfurl
To multitudes that knew me not in flesh?
Not when I'm gone care I for Renown's dawn,
Now, whilst I labour at Fame's lowest rung,
Let me reap dame Approval's brightest pearl
And sip its olpe as I my battles thresh. |
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