I wrestled for ambition's upper seats—

Clung to the slippery shrouds of policy—

And in my fury prayed for eagle's wings

To poize me in the shadow of the sun.

At wealth I grasped as a poor crippled wretch

Grasps at the crutch that steadies him along;

Yet not for it but for the power it brought,

For, Timon-like, within my heart of hearts

I cursed the yellow dust I trampled on.

But by the wayside I sat down and wept

As a child weeps above some shattered toy.

Oh Misery! to climb the steep of life

Led by a phantom without form or truth—

To find reality still rising up

[Pg 17]

To crush hope's fabrics with relentless force.

All was a fiction, but the voice said "Search!"

And glory flashed before me like a wisp,

Dazzling me on to bloodshed, and to strife.

Upon the field I stood with Victory,

 Prev. P 22/251 next