The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;