LXIII.

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[443] run wild.