The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,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 bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard (1750)
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little Tyrant of his fields withstood;Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard (1750)