Inheritance

THERE lived a man who raised his hand and said,
“I will be great!”
And through a long, long life he bravely knocked
At Fame’s closed gate.

A son he left who, like his sire, strove
High place to win;—
Worn out, he died and, dying, left no trace
That he had been.

He also left a son, who, without care
Or planning how,
Bore the fair letters of a deathless fame
Upon his brow.

“Behold a genius, filled with fire divine!”
The people cried;
Not knowing that to make him what he was
Two men had died.