Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/182

 A visioning that tempts the eye, But mocks the touch—nonentity; A rainbow, substanceless as bright, Flitting for ever O'er hill-top to more distant height, Nearing us never; A bubble, blown by fond conceit, In very sooth itself to cheat; The witch-fire of a frenzied brain; A fortune, that to lose were gain; A word of praise, perchance of blame; The wreck of a, time-bandied name,— Ay, This is Glory!—this is Fame!