No great “review” could rouse him now,
    No printed lies could sting;
No kindness smooth his knitted brow,
    Nor wrong one new line bring.
Through dull, dumb days and brooding nights,
    From years of storm and stress,
He’s riding down from lonely heights—
    The Mountains of Success.

He sees across the darkening land
    The graveyards on the coasts;
He sees the broken columns stand
    Like cold and bitter ghosts;
His world is dead while yet he lives,
    Though known in continents;
His camp is where his country gives
    Its pauper monuments.