Philip Alexander Bruce (1856-1933)

Edgar Allan Poe

Time weighs the destinies that men befall,

Bestows new laurels, turns the green to sere.

Too oft no honors soothe the poet here:

But when his Shade has passed into the Hall

Of Death we hear Fame's trumpet sound through all

The avenues of this terrestrial sphere,—

A blare that stirs no more the withered ear,

But makes men pause to list the lofty call

To pay full homage to a slighted name,

And genius long o'erlooked with fire acclaim.

Thus, melancholy, taciturn, forlorn,

Poe went his way through thorns and rocks and sand:

Lo! Fortune gave him then her empty hand

But for him dead she pours her amplest horn.