Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife.

Where Once My Careless Childhood Strayed, / A Stranger Yet To Pain.

To Brisk Notes In Cadence Beating, Glance Their Many-twinkling Feet.

The Insect-youth Are On The Wing, Eager To Taste The Honied Spring, And Float Amid The Liquid Noon!

The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

Can Storied Urn, Or Animated Bust Back To Its Mansion Call The Fleeting Breath? Can Honour's Voice Provoke The Silent Dust, Or Flatt'ry Soothe The Dull Cold Ear Of Death?