_Philos._ And what impression might they make upon you? For knowing as I do your graceful mind, And your profound research beyond your years, I am solicitous of your approval. _Schol._ I cannot praise--I cannot say one word In commendation of your misspent labors. Oh, surely it was not a friendly part To hold these gorgeous baits before a soul Just tottering on eternity! Delusion, ’Tis all delusion! while my soul abhorred, My heart was wounded at the traitorous act! _Philos._ Come, come, my friend, this is mere declamation; You have misunderstood both them and me! Point out the errors--you shall find me ever Open unto conviction. _Schol._ See my state-- A few short hours, and I must be with God; And yet you ask me to evolve that long Entanglement of subtlest sophistry! This is no friendly part: but I conjure you, Give not your soul to vain philosophy: The drooping Christian at the hour of death Needs other, mightier wisdom than it yields. Oh, though I am but young, and you are old, Grant me the privilege of a dying man, To counsel you in love! _Philos._ Enough, enough! I see that you are spent. I have too long Trespassed upon your time. But is there nought That I can serve you in? Aspire you not To win esteem by study? I will speak Unto the primest scholars throughout Europe In your behalf. All universities Will heap upon you honors at my asking. _Schol._ There was a time these things had been a snare; But the near prospect of eternity Takes from the gauds of earth their temptingest lure; No, no--it was a poor unmeet ambition Which then was hot within me, and, thank God, Affecteth me no more! _Philos._ Nay, but my friend, For your dear mother’s sake would you not leave A noble name emblazoned on your tomb? _Schol._ Can such poor, empty honors compensate Unto a childless mother for her son? You know her not, and me you know not either! _Philos._ But think you, my young friend, learning is honored By every honor paid to its disciples: Your tomb would be a shrine, to learning sacred. _Schol._ There is more comfort, sir, unto my soul To feel the smallest duty not neglected, And my day’s work fulfilled, than if I knew This perishable dust would be interred In kingly marble, and my name set forth In pompous blazonry. _Philos._ Not to be great-- You do mistake my drift--but greatly useful; Surely you call not this unmeet ambition!