Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

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.

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

Ah, tell them they are men!

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.