The Paths Of Glory Lead But To

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

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.

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?

To Contemplation's Sober Eye, Such Is The Race Of Man; And They That Creep, And They That Fly, Shall End Where They Began, Alike The Busy And The Gay, But Flutter Through Life's Little Day.

Nor Grandeur Hear With A Disdainful Smile The Short And Simple Annals Of The Poor.