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How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
And all that beauty,
all that wealth, e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;—
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
o'er their tomb
no trophies raise;
the long-drawn aisle
and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem
swells the note
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust?
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death?
Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge, to their eyes, her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; extreme poves
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage
And froze the genial current of the soul.