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,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest.
And read their history in a nation's eyes.