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.