The stars of heaven shine not till it is dark.
Seven cities strove for Homer's bones, 'tis said,
"Through which the living Homer begged for bread."
When in their coffins they lay dumb and stark
Shakespeare began to live, Dante to sing,
And Poe's sweet lute began its werbelling.
Rear monuments of fame or flattery--
Think ye their sleeping souls are made aware?
Heap o'er their heads sweet praise or calumny--
Think ye their moldering ashes hear or care?
Nay, praise and fame are by the living sought;
But he is wise who scorns their flattery,
And who escapes the tongue of calumny
May count himself an angel or a naught:
Lo over Byron's grave a maggot writhes distraught.
Genius is patience, labor and good sense.
Steel and the mind grow bright by frequent use;
In rest they rust. A goodly recompense
Comes from hard toil, but not from its abuse.
The slave, the idler, are alike unblessed;
Aye, in loved labor only is there rest.
But he will read and range and rhyme in vain
Who hath no dust of diamonds in his brain;
And untaught genius is a gem undressed.
The life of man is short, but Art is long,
And labor is the lot of mortal man,
Ordained by God since human time began:
Day follows day and brings its toil and song.
Pages:
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168