POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2503, 15 April 1882, Page 3

POETRY.

FAME. BY PABMENAS MIX. “ I don’t wish to discourage you, but lately I’ve been filled With certain strong misgivings, son, that somehow won’t be stilled ; There’s something tells me plain as words that you with all your wit, Have erred in marking out your course, and you’ll repent of it. “The time will come when you will sigh, had I hut only known What I do now, the good old farm, with all its hills and.stone, Would not have driven me away to find, whan hope is dead, That Fame does not bestow her wreath on any sort of head. “I’m talking plainly, that I know, but Beuben, mind you this. That Fame’s a far-off target that a million marksmen miss Then, some fine day the shot is heard that rings throughout the land, And Genius pops the bull’s eye square, with steady eye and band. “ You may turn out a genius, Rube ; I r’aly hope you will; You know Fame’s temple crowns the top of an enormous hill, And tens of thousands bound that way, with resolution stiff, Have found their way completely blocked by a stupendous 'lf.' “ This ‘lf ’ is very hard to climb ; it seems to touch the moon : Montgolfier went over in his primeval balloon — But, all along the way this side, you’ll hear the dreamy raoans Of the‘rising ’ bmith and Jenkins, and tie ‘gifted ’ Brown and Jones. “Now, Reuben, when you reach that 'lr ’ you’ll show good judgment, eon, By striking cross-lots for the farm and homefolks on a run ; Stay there and toil as I have done, and yon may-get to be A Deacon in the church, perhaps, or may be a school trustee. ‘■‘All that be blowed !’ Well, go your way, you’ll have my earnest prayers. We'll always keep in order, son, your cozy bod, up slaire, For you may yet return, convinced that wreaths of Fame are rare, And that your old straw hat bests eni's the color of your hair.