Implores The Passing Tribute Of A Sigh.

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 Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

If The Best Man's Faults Were Written On His Forehead, He Would Draw His Hat Over His Eyes.

Here Rests His Head Upon The Lap Of Earth, A Youth To Fortune And To Fame Unknown: Fair Science Frown'd Not On His Humble Birth, And Melancholy Mark'd Him For Her Own.

Low On His Funeral Couch He Lies!