They Hear A Voice In Every Wind,

Can Honor's Voice Provoke The Silent Dust, Or Flattery Soothe The Dull, Cold Ear Of Death?

How Low, How Little Are The Proud, How Indigent The Great!

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

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.

Chill Penury Repress'd Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.