Part 2 — THE STUDENT’S DREAM OF FAME.
Reading edition
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BY ROBERT MORRIS.
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’Tis midnight’s solemn hour! And mark—yon room
Narrow, and dimly lit. The thicken’d gloom
Of deepest night is scarcely chased away,
The lamp so small—so thin its feeble ray!
Alas! poor student! What a fate is thine!
Within thy bosom burns a ray divine,
A fire has to thy spirit’s cell been given,
Alive with flame caught from the founts of Heaven!
Genius is thine, and like a worshipper
Of some far world, or glory beaming star.
Night after night, thou toilest slowly on,
Each thought refining—each comparison,
And phrase, and figure, weighing well and long,
And thus thy life-blood pouring with thy song!
How little reck we of the toil of mind!
The inward strain some sparkling thought to find—
The hollow cheek—the fever-thrilling brain—
And worse than all, when venal is the strain,
And the poor author toils alone for gain!
Not such, pale wooer of the solemn night,
Not such thy fate. The far and dazzling light
That leads thee on, is that which Death nor Time
Can wholly quench—the towering light sublime,
That burns in Fame’s high temple—the strong fire
That flashed when Milton struck his mighty lyre!
The radiant Future dawns upon thy sight,
And all thy being maddens with delight—
The dust that forms thy fragile body now,
May shrink and fade, as melts the early snow—
And where the blue veins course throughout thy form,
The things of death may revel with the worm—
But oh! wild vision—thought o’er mastering death,
Thy name shall brighten with thy parting breath—
Beings as yet unborn shall give thee praise—
And Glory’s hand shall bind thy brow with bays!
For this—for this—thine hours are given to toil,
For this alone thou burn’st the midnight oil—
Thou see’st the Future radiant with thy name,
And yield’st thy life in sacrifice for Fame!