60
POEMS.
Count ye wealth as the evidence sole of his pow'r?
There are traces more true in the wild mountain-flow'r.
It hath proof in the wave that, with foam-crested head,
Bears the living above where lies scattered the dead!
It hath proof in the gem I can bring from the grave
Of the child or the friend whom your wealth could not save.
Wreath your brow, man of pride, with Fame's goldtinted flow'rs,
But beware lest they fade in Fate's oft-falling show'rs!
For me twines no laurel! on me bends no eye,
Save that one which, 'mid danger, seems ever most nigh;
Ye have fortune's warm friends, and to me it is given
To stand with my Maker, alone, before heaven!
R. A.
There are traces more true in the wild mountain-flow'r.
It hath proof in the wave that, with foam-crested head,
Bears the living above where lies scattered the dead!
It hath proof in the gem I can bring from the grave
Of the child or the friend whom your wealth could not save.
Wreath your brow, man of pride, with Fame's goldtinted flow'rs,
But beware lest they fade in Fate's oft-falling show'rs!
For me twines no laurel! on me bends no eye,
Save that one which, 'mid danger, seems ever most nigh;
Ye have fortune's warm friends, and to me it is given
To stand with my Maker, alone, before heaven!
R. A.
