CHARLES LEVER.
Born August 31, 1809; died June 1, 1872.
Two worlds there are in which we live and move—
The world of fiction and the world of fact:
One of King Magic, whom his subjects love;
One of King Fate, wherein we talk and act.
In one, the good men fail, the bad succeed;
Age carves its lines too soon on buxom youth:
Man falls ignobly in the hour of need,
And woman's faith beats down our faith in truth.
Here sickness weakens; here high purpose dies;
Here lofty aims are kill'd; hero few are brave;
Here, torn by vultures, great Prometheus lies;
Here hope is crush'd, work bounded by the grave.
But there, O great magicians! there we dwell,
Robed in forgetfulness of present woe,
Languid and still, on beds of asphodel,
"While the unheeded hours pass by and go.
There beauty fades not, smiles change not to tears,
Mirth never palls, and wine doth not destroy;
Love is immortal, manhood has no fears;
No cloud is there 'tween sunshine and our joy.
O world of fiction! all unreal, yet true—
What fit thanks can we frame our debt to meet?
And for thy chiefs what crown of praise is due,
If any crown is dear to them we greet?
The kings and statesmen pass across the stage
They vex the world and us and then they die:
Forgotten soon, save where on history's page
Dry lists of dead men's names make schoolboys sigh.
