Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.