I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.