And, what’s still stranger, left behind a name
For which men vainly decimate the throng,
Not only famous, but of that good fame,
Without which Glory’s but a tavern song—
Simple, serene, the antipodes of Shame,
Which Hate nor Envy e’er could tinge with wrong;
An active hermit, even in age the child
Of Nature—or the Man of Ross run wild.