Fame
has always seemed to the philosopher like some mountain in a polar
clime--cold, lonesome, inhospitable.
Tall mountains meet, and giddy greet
The clouds in their exalted homes;
What may they show, save ice and snow,
Unto the fleets that pass their domes?
Their crests are bold with solar gold:
Their charming cliffs enchant the eye;
Yet earth shows not more dreary spot
Than toilers in their heights descry.
There points a peak which mortals seek--
Fraught are its crags with human woes;
Shrill through its fasts shriek envy-blasts--
Forever drift hate's blinding snows.
Its towering height beams with a light--
The wondrous blaze of Glory's orb;
Still those who gaze feel most the rays,
While they who climb no warmth absorb.
Contentment creeps--Renown climbs steeps
Where consummations ne'er appease;
Below, how oft, when Care's aloft,
Unhappiness, distrusting, flees.
[Illustration]
THE REPUBLIC'S ANCHOR.
In ancient times the sacred plough employed
The kings and awful fathers of mankind.
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