OH say, what is this thing called Fame, and is it worth our while? We
seek it till we’re old and lame, for weary mile on mile; we seek a gem
among the hay, for wheat among the chaff; and in the end some heartless
jay will write our epitaph. The naked facts it will relate, and little
else beside: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.”
The gravestones in the boneyard tell all we shall ever know of men who
struggled passing well for glory, long ago. They had their iridescent
schemes and lived to see them fail; they had their dreams, as you have
dreams, and all of no avail. The gravestones calmly tell their fate, the
upshot of their pride: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date
he died.” The great men of your fathers’ time, with laurel on each brow,
the theme of every poet’s rhyme—where are those giants now? Their names
are written in the books which no one ever reads; and on the
scroll—where no one looks—the record of their deeds. The idler by the
churchyard gate this legend hath espied: “This man was born on such a
date, on such a date he died.”
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