Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

From Toil He Wins His Spirits Light, From Busy Day The Peaceful Night; Rich, From The Very Want Of Wealth, In Heaven's Best Treasures, Peace And Health.

The Boast Of Heraldry, The Pomp Of Pow'r, And All That Beauty, All That Wealth E'er Gave, Awaits Alike Th' Inevitable Hour. The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

And Weep The More, Because I Weep In Vain.

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

Ye Towers Of Julius, London's Lasting Shame, With Many A Foul And Midnight Murder Fed.