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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave,
Await, alike, th' inevitable hour ;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Vor 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.