Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

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?

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

Rich with the spoils of time.