The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
A fav'rite has no friend!
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.