Giulio Bussi

Translated by Sir Aubrey de Vere

GLORY, what art thou? Thee, despite of pain,

And want, and toil, the brave heart cherisheth:

Thee the pale student courts, wasting, in vain,

His primal youth, thy worshipper in death.

Glory, what art thou? Thine imperial breath

Speaks woe to all: with pangs do men obtain

An empty boon that duly perisheth,

Whose very fear of loss outweighs the gain.

Glory, what art thou then? A fond deceit,

Child of long suffering, empty air, a sweet

Prize that is sought with toil, but never found:

In life, by every envious lip denied;

In death, to ears that hear not a sweet sound:

Glory—thou fatal scourge of human pride!