The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

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.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.