Implores The Passing Tribute Of A Sigh.

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.

To Contemplation's Sober Eye, Such Is The Race Of Man; And They That Creep, And They That Fly, Shall End Where They Began, Alike The Busy And The Gay, But Flutter Through Life's Little Day.

How Low, How Little Are The Proud, How Indigent The Great!

He Pass'd The Flaming Bounds Of Place And Time: The Living Throne, The Sapphire Blaze, Where Angels Tremble While They Gaze, He Saw; But Blasted With Excess Of Light, Closed His Eyes In Endless Night.

The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.