 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
[Their names who famous were of old]
Their names who famous were of oldAre antiquated; long ago
Camillus, Cæsar, Scipio
Were with forgotten men enrolled.
Augustus, Hadrian, Antonine,
There is an end to all the line.
Where is the hand that grasped the sword?
The brow that wore the diadem?
Let the grave answer, if it can;
Speak, speak, thou dust that once was man!
The hollow grave returns no word,
Oblivion long has buried them.
This fate is theirs, and this alone,
Who in a wondrous way have shone.
For all the rest, who go to death,
As soon as they breathe out their breath,
They are gone—pursuit of them is vain,
And no man speaks of them again.
Since all is dust, then, what remains
That should employ our serious pains?
Just thoughts, as if the gods were by,
Good deeds, and words which never lie:
A disposition that receives,
Accepts what happens, and believes
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The distant sea to which it goes,
Though by no mortal understood,
Is necessary, wise, and good.
Great names have perished; this survives,
And shapes the issue of our lives.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |