The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

Chill Penury Repress'd Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.

The Time Will Come, When Thou Shalt Lift Thine Eyes To Watch A Long-drawn Battle In The Skies. While Aged Peasants, Too Amazed For Words, Stare At The Flying Fleets Of Wondrous Birds.

In Buskined Measures Move Pale Grief And Pleasing Pain, With Horror, Tyrant Of The Throbbing Breast.

As To Posterity, I May Ask What Has It Ever Done To Oblige Me?

The Boast Of Heraldry, The Pomp Of Pow'r, And All That Beauty, All That Wealth E'er Gave, Awaits Alike Th' Inevitable Hour. The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.