Get this book in print
About this book
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 Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise;
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.