Classic Poem

In the full strength of youthful prime,
My very soul in flame,
Without a stain of care or crime
Upon my heart or name, —
Impatient of each dull delay,
I yearned to tread the rugged way
To glory and to fame;
And as each kindling thought awoke,
Thus the sweet voice of Fancy spoke: —

" The warrior grasps the battle brand,
And seeks the field of fight,
And madly lifts his daring hand
Against all human right.
He goeth with unholy wrath,
To scatter death along his path,
While nations mourn his might;
And though he win the world's acclaim,
This is not glory — is not fame.

" The roll of the arousing drum,
The bugle's startling bray;
The thunder of the bursting bomb,
The tumult of the fray;
The oft-recurring hour of strife,
The blight of hope, the waste of life,
The proud victorious day: —
This, this may be a splendid game,
But 'tis not glory — 'tis not fame.

" Can we subdue the orphan's cries,
The widow's plaintive wail;
Or turn from mute, upbraiding eyes —
From faces sad and pale?
Can we restore the mind gone dim,
The broken heart, the shattered limb,
By war's exulting tale?
This is ambition, guilt, and shame,
But 'tis not glory — 'tis not fame.

" When some aspiring spirit turns
To seize the helm of state,
And with a selfish ardour burns
To make his title great;
Honour and power, and wealth and pride,
May gather round on every side,
And at his bidding wait;
But curs'd be each oppressive aim! —
This is not glory — is not fame.

" The Rebel, too, who rears aloft
The banner of his cause,
And calls upon the people oft
To spurn their country's laws; —
The Rebel, whose destructive hand
Would bring disorder in the land,
Ere Reason think or pause; —
He hath a loud, notorious name,
But 'tis not glory — 'tis not fame.

" The Patriot, who hath seen too long
His own loved land oppressed,
While all Man's nobler feelings throng
Within his generous breast; —
He who can wield the sword so well,
Like Washington, or Bruce, or Tell,
The bravest and the best —
He lives unknown to fear or blame:
This is glory — this is fame.

" There are who pour the light of truth
Upon the glowing page,
To purify the soul of youth,
To cheer the heart of age:
There are whom God hath sent to show
The wonders of his power below —
Such is the gifted Sage;
And these have learned our love to claim: —
This is glory — this is fame.

" There are, like Howard, who employ
Their healthiest, happiest hours
In shedding peace, and hope, and joy
Around this world of ours;
Who free the captive, feed the poor,
And enter every humble door
Where sin or sorrow lowers,
Till nations breathe and bless their name: —
This is glory — this is fame.

" The poet, whose aspiring Muse
Waves her ecstatic wing,
Clothes thought and language with the hues
Of every holy thing, —
Of beauty in its thousand forms,
Of all that cheers, refines, and warms,
He loves to dream and sing;
And myriads feel his song of flame: —
This is glory — this is fame.

" Then go, proud Youth! go even now,
Nor heed Misfortune's frown,
And win for thine undaunted brow
A well-deserved crown.
Look not for false and fleeting state;
But if thou wouldst be loved and great,
Keep pride and passion down;
Let constant virtue be thy aim,
For that is glory — that is fame! "