There is a cliff, no matter where,
Which softened by the agencies
Of rain, exposure to the air,
And alternating thaw and freeze,
Most readily admits the edge
Of chisel, or the sharpened wedge.

The travelers, while passing by,
Within its shade find welcome rest;
And one of them mechanically,
As is a custom in the west,
Upon its surface stern and gray
Carved out his name, and went his way.

Though inartistic and uncouth,
That effort of a novice hand
Exemplifies a striking truth,
And may Time's ravages withstand,
To be by future ages read,
When years and centuries have fled.

So on life's mighty thoroughfare,
The multitude of every class
Leave no inscriptions chiseled, where
Their transient footsteps chanced to pass,
And waft to each succeeding age
No echoes from their pilgrimage.

Though many pass, yet few record
Their names in characters sublime,
By grand achievement, work or word
Upon the monolith of Time;
But few inscribe a lasting name
On the eternal cliffs of Fame.