TIME-EATEN , like his books, and worn
With teen and strong endeavour,
Pure heart, flame burning ever,
Whence lofty thought and verse were born,
With lamp-lit toil he met the morn.

And wealth bequeathed by ages old
Stood round him piled, enshelved,
Wherein he nightly delved,
Nor paused when grey was smitten gold,
Nor shuddered though the morn blew cold.

The Past was servitor to him;
His genius robed in learning,
His wages fame for earning,—
Fame seen afar, with eyeballs dim,
Fame cheaply bought by life or limb.

Yet men who dig for gold despise
Those lean hands godless delving,
That patience slow uphelving
Mysterious glories for their eyes,
Who sneering deem his prize no prize.

They, perched on money-bags, supreme,
Behold him but with scorning,
Grip gold all night; the morning
Breaks with a chill, sarcastic gleam
The pelf and profits of their dream.

Sleek fed they travel towards their end,
Their joys gold-built, their troubles,
The wreck of gilded bubbles.
In sight of that towards which we tend
They crawl to wealth, for heirs to spend.

But he, sad-eyed and ashy-cheeked,
When slips the pen from grasping,
Sees, as he struggles, gasping,
With fame the far horizon streaked
Behind Death's raven gory-beaked.

Last, when, his final task complete,
He sat, sat as he perished,
Amid the love he cherished,
They say who pierced his lone retreat
That angel pinions swept their feet.

A beauteous fabric perfect wrought,
His days were spent in framing,
Lives, blooms to utter shaming
The fools who spurned his toil, and thought
Fame, like their Consols, might be bought.

Sad reverent steps and hearts are ours,
When to his tablet bringing
Grief, awe, and love upspringing,
And little care we, scattering flowers,
Where riches gilded obelisk towers.