Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/522

 oOG D. CARLYLE MACCLOY. [1850-60. A FRAGMENT. Here in my palm, now, is a simile : Mark you this corn and chaif, unwinnowed yet; See how the plump, round grains, filled to the skin With honest meat, from their own weight go down Till they are lost beneath the worthlesss husks, Which from their very lightness rise and hide What better doth deserve the kiss of day. Well, see, I blow upon it, so — mark now. How doth the idle chaff fly off until The passing winds bear it away unseen, Where it shall rot, and no more court the gaze : But these pure germs, instinct with life to come. The fruitful earth receives, and from their tombs Sends forth the heralds of their patient worth. Until an hundred generous harvest fields. Waving like molten gold beneath the sun. Proclaim the glory of those quiet seeds ! Herein behold the false and truly great. Be patient, then, if those, with specious acts Do draw large audience and great ap- plause ; Let them alone, they are the worthless chaff Which winged Time shall winnow^ quite away ; They purchase with this life of bastard fame, Eternity of blank oblivion! Nor do complain, if these, kin to the gods? Walk here with their divinity concealed. Such men may walk in their own times alone, With souls that live in ages yet uncome, And we not know till their soul-age is in. They are the hid but germinating seeds. From whose decay rich harvests shall be reaped. They make no noise, but quietly work on, For greatness is possessed and humble too. They seek not fame as a great end in life, But from their deeds she comes a conse- quence; And death is seedtime of their fair re- nown. Lo ! him who sleeps by peaceful Avon's tide! Himself the grand epitome of man, To whom all passions and affections did Unmask, while he explored the mazy soul. And tracked each shy suggestion to its source. And found the key to every character — From him, " the foremost man of all the world," Down to the meanest and most slighted job Of "Nature's journeymen." The jocund Will ! How little in his time they dreamed that Fame Would write his deathless name in gold atop Of all she hitherto had registered, And name his very times — Shaksperean! The first installment of his fame scarce paid, He paid stern nature's debt, and fell asleep, Bequeathing to the world a legacy Of fair report that doth outparagon The glory of an hundred Waterloos ! Lo! him who sang of godlike themes, and swept From Heaven-gate down to Tartarean night ! Obscure — for his slow times knew not the man — He dwelt apart, as if the strumpet Fame, Intending slight, passed by the other side. Then like to blind Mtfonides in Tate, Now Avalketh lie abreast of him in fame ! And now his miglity name goes on before. Smiting the shadows from the path of man !