Htaurfl. 
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. II. C. 
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. 
Motherwell. 
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. 
MacKellar. 
To die, and leave some worthy work to earth, 
Is but a fine transition. ’Tis to leave 
A talisman to call the spirit back, 
Reft of its ground-born tenement. 
C. Watson. 
