POETRY.
FAME.
FULL many songs he wrote—alack !
He gave his whole youth to his art— Yet not a single line came back From other lips to cheer his heart.
"This is the last song from my pen !"
He cried: his heart was like to break. Ile wrote it, then, from haunts of men, He fled away for poor pride's sake.
His time of prime he lived alone And laboured with his hands for bread, Nor ever struck a tender tone, Nor willing words to music wed.
But in the twilight of his years
His heart grew restless, and one morn He rose with all an old man's fears
And sought the town where he was born.
He strayed within the busy street—
No face he knew, and none knew him-. He looked about for some retreat, And found a doorway cool and dim, And rested there,—" How sore to die When there is nought to lose by death!" A beggar woman paused hard by, And whined her song with gaps for breath, It was his song,—the one he wrote That day he set his muse to fast.
Joy, like the lightning, flashed, and smote His heart,—and Fame was his at last!
J. J. BELL.
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