GLORY. 
BAY WREATH. 
Laurus Carolinensis. 
Language — GLORY. 
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 nought; 
A flower that blossoms for a day, 
Dying next morrow; 
A stream that hurries on its way, 
Singing of sorrow. 
Motherwell. 
And glory long has made the sages smile ; 
’Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
Depending more upon the historian’s style 
Than on the name a person leaves behind. 
Byrou. 
Real glory 
springs from the silent conquest of ourselves ; 
And without that the conqueror is nought 
But the first slave. 
Thomsoiy. 
Fame ! Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 
Unto the drooping reed, 
The cool, fresh fountain, in the day 
Of the soul’s feverish need : 
Where must the lone one turn or flee ? 
Not unto thee, 0, nof^to thee ! 
