And all that beauty, all that wealth, e’er gave
Await alike th’ inevitable hour:—
The paths of glory lead but to the grave....
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,