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.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

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?

We frolic while 'tis May.