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He remembereth the blessedness of light, but it is with an old man's memory,

A blind old man from infancy, that once hath seen the

sun,

Whom long experience of night hath darkened in his cradle recollections,

Until his brightest thought of noon is but a shade of black.

This then is thy charm, O beauty all pervading; And this thy wondrous strength, O beauty, conqueror of all :

The outline of our shadowy best, the pure and comely creature,

That winneth on the conscience with a saddening admiration :

And some untutored thirst for God, the root of every pleasure,

Native to creatures, yea in ruin, and dating from the birthday of the soul.

For God sealeth up the sum, confirmed exemplar of

proportions,

Rich in love, full of wisdom, and perfect in the plenitude of Beauty. (9)

101

Of Fame.

Blow the trumpet, spread the wing, fling thy scroll upon the sky,

Rouse the slumbering world, O Fame, and fill the sphere with echo!

-Beneath thy blast they wake, and murmurs come hoarsely on the wind,

And flashing eyes and bristling hands proclaim they hear thy message:

Rolling and surging as a sea, that upturned flood of

faces

Hasteneth with its million tongues to spread the wondrous tale

;

The hum of added voices groweth to the roaring of

a cataract,

And rapidly from wave to wave is tossed that exaggerated story,

Until those stunning clamours, gradually diluted in the distance,

Sink ashamed, and shrink afraid of noise, and die

away.

Then brooding Silence, forth from his hollow

caverns,

Cloaked and cowled, and gliding along, a cold and stealthy shadow,

Once more is mingled with the multitude, whispering as he walketh,

And hushing all their eager ears, to hear some newer Fame.

So all is still again; but nothing of the past hath been forgotten;

A stirring recollection of the trumpet ringeth in the hearts of men:

And each one, either envious or admiring, hath wished the chance were his

To fill as thus the startled world with fame, or fear, or wonder.

This lit thy torch of sacrilege, Ephesian Eratostratus ; (10)

This dug thy living grave, Pythagoras, the traveller from Hades;

For this, dived Empedocles into Etna's fiery whirl

pool;

For this conquerors, regicides, and rebels, have

dared their perilous crimes.

In all men, from the monarch to the menial, lurketh lust of fame;

The savage and the sage alike regard their labours

proudly :

Yea, in death, the glazing eye is illumined by the hope of reputation,

And the stricken warrior is glad, that his wounds are salved with glory.

For fame is a sweet self-homage, an offering grateful to the idol,

A spiritual nectar for the spiritual thirst, a mental food for mind,

A pregnant evidence to all of an after immaterial existence,

A proof that soul is scatheless, when its dwelling is

dissolved.

And the manifold pleasures of fame are sought by the guilty and the good;

Pleasures, various in kind, and spiced to every palate :

The thoughtful loveth fame as an earnest of better immortality,

The industrious and deserving, as a symbol of just appreciation,

The selfish, as a promise of advancement, at least to a man's own kin,

And common minds, as a flattering fact that men have been told of their existence.

There is a blameless love of fame, springing from desire of justice,

When a man hath featly won and fairly claimed his honours :

And then fame cometh as encouragement to the inward consciousness of merit

Gladdening by the kindliness and thanks, wherewithal his labours are rewarded.

But there is a sordid imitation, a feverish thirst for

notoriety,

Waiting upon vanity and sloth, and utterly regardless of deserving:

And then fame cometh as a curse; the fire-damp is

gathered in the mine :

The soul is swelled with poisonous air, and a spark of temptation shall explode it.

Edle causes, noised awhile, shall yield most active

consequents,

And therefore it were ill upon occasion, to scorn the

voice of rumour.

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