Men of to-day and yester's nought,
Before you were the things we see
Who gave a guess or gave a mought
That such as you to-day should be?
Ah, passers by the common way,
Who thought of ye before to-day?

Men of to-day, to-morrow's dust,
When years have past where shall ye go?
What vulgar daub or hurried lust
Shall chronicle your joy and woe?
Waves on the crest of life's swift sea,
After to-day who'll think of ye?

Genius alone can cause me fire
That in your glorious nature lies;
Genius alone can strike the lyre
And raíse your name to mortal skies;
Genius of death can tear the pall
And yester's nought mar be an all.

But virtue, fool, like human tears,
By sands of earth too surely drunk,
Sinks in the dust of passing years,
Nor knowest thou where has it sunk.
Let genius then the laurel wear;
To-morrow's dust mar live for e'er.