Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow'r,

And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, th' inevitable hour;

The paths of Glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Mem’ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.