Posthumous fame is a plant of tardy growth, for our body must be the
seed of it; or we may liken it to a torch, which nothing but the last
spark of life can light up; or we may compare it to the trumpet of the
archangel, for it is blown over the dead: but unlike that awful blast,
it is of earth, not of heaven, and can neither rouse nor raise us.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.