Thomas Gray

And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

And waste their sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.

A fav'rite has no friend!

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows; While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.