Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
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.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.