THE BRAGGART

Out from a tomb crept vice with hideous leer;
"I am Heredity," he said, "whom all men fear.
I sleep, but die not; when fate calls I come,
And generations at my touch succumb."

A lofty shape rose sudden in his path,
It cried "You lie!" and struck at him in wrath.
Heredity, the braggart, stark and still,
Fell prostrate at the feet of mighty Will.

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Munsey's Magazine (January-June, 1897): 638.


Back to Poem Index