The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.