THE END OF ALL.
BY W. WHITMAN.
Behold around us pomp and pride;
The rich, the lofty, and the gay,
Glitter before our dazzled eyes,
Live out their brief but brilliant day;
Then, when the hour for fame is o'er,
Unheeded pass away.
The warrior builds a mighty name,
The object of his hopes and fears,
That future times may see it where
Her tower aspiring glory rears.
Desist, O fool! Think what thoul't be
In a few fleeting years.
The statesman's sleepless, plodding brain
Schemes out a nation's destiny;
His is the voice that awes the crowd,
And his the bold, commanding eye:
But transient is his high renown;
He, like the rest, must die.
Beside his ponderous, age-worn book,
A student shades his weary brow;
He walks philosophy's dark path,
A journey difficult and slow:
But vain is all that teeming mind,
He, too, to earth must go.
And beauty, sweet, and all the fair
That sail on fortune's sunniest wave,
The poor, with him of countless gold,
Owner of all that mortals crave,
Alike are fated soon to lie
Down in the silent grave.
Why, then, O, insects of an hour!
Why, then, with struggling toil, contend
For honors you so soon must yield,
When Death shall his stern summons send?
For honor, glory, fortune, wit,
This is, to all, the end.
Think not, when you attain your wish,
Content will banish gief and care!
High though your stand, though round you
thrown
The robes that rank and splendor wear,
A secret poison in the heart
Will stick and rankle there.
In night go view the solemn stars,
Ever in majesty the same;
Creation's worlds: how poor must seem
The mightiest honors earth can name;
And, most of all, this silly strife
After the bubble, fame!