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

Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

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

The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.