And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The still small voice of gratitude.
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.