Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.
Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.