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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest.
And read their history in a nation's eyes.
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Along the cool sequestered vale of life,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
And many a holy text around she strews,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind.
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere.
He gave to misery, (all he had) a tear.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.
Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude.
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.
On his own Character.
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune;
To Mr. West. 3d Series. Letter iv.
Now as the Paradisaical pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
Ode in 1746.
How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.
In notes by distance made more sweet.
In hollow murmurs died away.
O Music sphere-descended maid,
Eclogue 1. Line 5.
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell; 'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.
Ode on the Death of Thomson.
Epistle to Curio.
The man forget not, though in rags he lies,
The Fireside. St. 3.
If solid happiness we prize,
And they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to bestow;
Thus hand in hand through life we'll go;
With cautious steps we'll tread.
Douglas. Act i. Sc. 1.
In the first days
Of my distracting grief, I found myself
Act ii. Sc. 1.
My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
And learn the luxury of doing good.
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view.