To Either

Back further than I know, in San Francisco dwelt a wealthy man. So rich was he That none could be Wise, good and great in like degree. 'Tis true he wrought, In deed or thought, But few of all the things he ought; But men said: 'Who Would wish him to? Great souls are born to be, not do!' One thing, indeed, He did, we read, Which was becoming, all agreed: Grown provident, Ere life was spent He built a mighty monument. For longer than I know, in San Francisco lived a beggar man; And when in bed They found him dead 'Just like the scamp!' the people said. He died, they say, On the same day His wealthy neighbor passed away. What matters it When beggars quit Their beats? I answer: Not a bit. They got a spade And pick and made A hole, and there the chap was laid. 'He asked for bread,' 'Twas neatly said: 'He'll get not even a stone instead.' The years rolled round: His humble mound Sank to the level of the ground; And men forgot That the bare spot Was like (and was) the beggar's lot. Forgotten, too, Was t'other, who Had reared the monument to woo Inconstant Fame, Though still his name Shouted in granite just the same. That name, I swear, They both did bear The beggar and the millionaire. That lofty tomb, Then, honored-whom? For argument here's ample room. I'll not debate, But only state The scamp first claimed it at the Gate. St. Peter, proud To serve him, bowed And showed him to the softest cloud.