3LaurcI. 99 
Give me the trumpet tone of fame, 
The victor's wreath, the hero's name; 
Though bites the steel and clanks the chain, 
I would a warrior's glory gain, 
A nation's pet and idol be, 
With slaves to crouch and bend the knee. 
w. R. a 
What is glory ? What is fame ? 
The echo of a long-lost name ; 
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk ; 
The shadow of an arrant naught ; 
A flower that blossoms for a day, 
Dying next morrow ; 
A stream that hurries on its way. 
Singing of sorrow. 
Mothei-well. 
In poet's lore, and sentimental story. 
It seems as 'twere this life's supremest aim 
For heroes to achieve what men call glory, 
And die intoxicate with earth's acclaim. 
Ah me ! how little care the dead for breath 
Of vain applause that saved them not from death. 
MacKellai: 
To die, and leave some worthy work to earth. 
Is but a fine transition 'Tis to leave 
A talisman to call the spirit back, 
Keft of its ground-born tenement. 
C. Watson. 
