History has it that after a Roman general came home after a big victory, he was given the honor of a triumph, a commemorative march through the city.
As the general was towed about in a chariot with the plebs and patricians cheering, behind him stood a slave, whispering into his ear: "Sic transit gloria. This glory will pass. You too, my master, are mortal."
The poem below is Ozymandias, by Percy Shelley. I read it many moons ago. Came across it recently in someone's blog and the memory came back.
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-- Percy Bysshe Shelley
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