Than chronicles or poesy
      Have kept alive for babbling earth
      To boast of in despite of me.” 
    The other cried, in scornful mirth,
      “Of all that was or is thou curse,
      Thou dost o’errate thy frightful worth! 
    Between the cradle and the hearse,
      What one of mine has lived unknown,
      Whether through triumph or reverse? 
    For them the regal jewels shone,
      For them the battled line was spread;
      Victorious or overthrown,
    My splendor on their path was shed. 
      They lived their life, they ruled their day: 
      I hold no commerce with the dead. 
    Mistake me not, and falsely say,
    ’Lo, this is slow, laborious Fame,
      Who cares for what has passed away,’—­
    My twin-born brother, meek and tame,
      Who troops along with crippled Time,
      And shrinks at every cry of shame,
    And halts at every stain and crime;
      While I, through tears and blood and guilt,
      Stride on, remorseless and sublime. 
    War with his offspring as thou wilt;
      Lay thy cold lips against their cheek. 
      The poison or the dagger-hilt
    Is what my desperate children seek. 
      Their dust is rubbish on the hills;
      Beyond the grave they would not speak. 
    Shall man surround his days with ills,
      And live as if his only care
      Were how to die, while full life thrills
    His bounding blood?  To plan and dare,
      To use life is life’s proper end: 
      Let death come when it will, and where!”—­
    “You prattle on, as babes that spend
      Their morning half within the brink
      Of the bright heaven from which they wend;
    But what I am you dare not think. 
      Thick, brooding shadow round me lies;
      You stare till terror makes you wink;
    I go not, though you shut your eyes. 
      Unclose again the loathful lid,
      And lo, I sit beneath the skies,
    As Sphinx beside the pyramid!”
      So Death, with solemn rise and fall
      Of voice, his sombre mind undid. 
    He paused; resuming,—­“I am all;
      I am the refuge and the rest;
      The heart aches not beneath my pall. 
    O soldier, thou art young, unpressed
      By snarling grief’s increasing swarm;
      While joy is dancing in thy breast,
    Fly from the future’s fated harm;
      Rush where the fronts of battle meet,
      And let me take thee on my arm!”
    Said Glory,—­“Warrior, fear deceit,
      Where Death gives counsel.  Run thy race;
      Bring the world cringing to thy feet! 
    Surely no better time nor place
      Than this, where all the Nation calls
      For help, and weakness and disgrace
    Lag in her tents and council-halls,
      And down on aching heart and brain
      Blow after blow unbroken falls. 
    Her strength flows out through