Youth Smiles Without Any Reason. It Is

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.

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

A Fav'rite Has No Friend!

But Knowledge To Their Eyes Her Ample Page Rich With The Spoils Of Time Did Ne'er Unroll; Chill Penury Repressed Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.

To Each His Suff'rings: All Are Men, / Condemn'd Alike To Groan, / The Tender For Another's Pain; / Th' Unfeeling For His Own.