Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
A fav'rite has no friend!
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.