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41

X. Of Fame, and Death.

Quicunque solam mente præcipiti petit
Summamque eredit gloriam, &c.

Gif nu hæletha hwone
Hlisan lyste
Unnytre gelp. &c.

If any man will be so vain
As now for fame to lust,
The empty praise of men to gain
And in such folly trust,
Him would I bid to gaze around
The circle of the sky,
And think how far above the ground
The heav'n is wide and high.
How small this world to wisdom's ken
Set against that so vast,
Though ours may seem to witless men
Huge, wide, and sure to last.
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Yet may the wise in heart feel shame
That once his thirst was strong
For silly greediness of fame
That never lasteth long.
Such lust of praise he may not spread
Over this narrow earth,
'Tis folly all, and of the dead,
A glory nothing worth.
And you, O proud, why wish ye still
And strive with all your care
The heavy yoke of your own will
Upon your necks to bear?
Why will ye toil yet more and more
For glory's useless prize,
And reach your rule from shore to shore
Unneeded and unwise?
Though now ye reign from South to North
And, with an ernest will,
The furthest dwellers on the earth
Your dread behests fulfil?
The greatest earl of wealthiest praise
However rich or high,
Death cares not for him, but obeys
The Ruler of the sky,
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With even hand right swift to strike,
At His allowing word,
The rich man and the poor alike
The lowborn and his lord.
Where are the bones of Weland now,
So shrewd to work in gold?
Weland, though wise, to death must bow
That greatest man of old:
Though wise, I say; for what Christ gives
Of wisdom to a man,
That craft with him for ever lives
Which once on earth began:
And sooner shall a man's hand fetch
The sun from her due course,
Than steal from any dying wretch
His cunning skill by force.
Who then can tell, wise Weland's bones
Where now they rest so long?
Beneath what heap of earth and stones
Their prison is made strong?
Rome's wisest son, be-known so well,
Who strove her rights to save,
That mighty master, who can tell
Where Brutus has a grave?
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So too, the man of sternest mould,
The good, the brave, the wise,
His people's shepherd, who hath told
Of Cato, where he lies?
Long are they dead: and none can know
More of them than their name:
Such teachers have too little now
Of all their worthy fame.
Now too, forgotten everywhere,
The like to them have found
But little kindly speech or care
From all the world around;
So that, however wise in worth
Such foremost men may stand,
No home-felt praises bring them forth
For fame throughout the land.
Though now ye wish long time to live,
And pine to have it so,
What better blessing can it give
Than now ye find below?
As Death lets none go free at last
When God allows his power,
If Death For-ever follows fast,
How short is this world's hour!
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