Vanity of Fame

What boots the toil to follow common fame,
With youth's wild visions of anxiety,
And waste a life to win a feeble claim
Upon her page, which she so soon turns by
To make new votaries room, who share the same
Rewards, — and with her faded memories lie
Neighbours to shadows! — 'Tis a sorry game
To play in earnest with; — to think one's name,
Buoyant with visions of eternity,
And as familiar now in the world's ear
As flowers and sunshine to the summer's eye,
Shall be forgot, with other things that were;
And like old words grown out of use, thrown by,
In the confused lap of still Obscurity.