Amongst other objects on which the sunshine still caught, was a little woody mound projecting from the surface of the hill, and crowned with an old round tower beginning to fall into ruins. As we passed it, the good priest, who never loved to see me in any of those fits of gloom which sometimes fell upon me--the natural placidity of his disposition leading him to miscomprehend the variability of mine--pointed out to me the mound and the crumbling tower as the spot where a great victory had been gained over the Moors, in times long gone; and our conversation gradually turned to war and deeds of renown: but Father Francis had abjured the sword, and little appreciated the word _glory_. "Glory, my dear Louis," said he, "according to the world's acceptation of the word, is, I am afraid, little better in general than the gilding with which mighty robbers cover over great crimes. When I was young, however, I thought like you, and I am afraid all young men will think so, till reason teaches them that the only true glory which man can have, is to be found in the love of his fellow-creatures, not in their fears. All other glory is but emptiness. You remember the Italian poet's lines on the field of Cannæ. I. "Glory! alas! what is it but a name? Go search the records of the years of old, And thou shalt find, too sure, that brightest fame, For which hard toiled the skilful and the bold, Was but a magic gift that none could hold-- A name, traced with an infant's finger in the sand, O'er which dark Time's effacing waves are rolled-- A fragile blossom in a giant's hand, Crushed with a thousand more, that die as they expand. II. "I stand on Cannæ:--here for endless years, Might fond remembrance dream o'er days pass'd by, Tracing this bitter place of many tears: But mem'ry too has flown, and leaves the eye To rest on nought but bleakness, and the sigh To mourn the frailty of man's greatest deeds-- Oh, would he learn by truth such deeds to try, Lo! how devouring Time on conquest feeds; Forgot the hand that slays, forgot the land that bleeds. III. "Time! mighty vaunter! Thou of all the race That strive for glory, o'er thine acts canst raise The monument that never falls, and place The ruins of a world to mark thy ways. Each other conq'ror's memory decays To heap the pile that comments on thy name; Thy column rises with increasing days, And desolation adds unto thy fame; But Cannae was forgot--Time, 'tis with thee the same."