Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

Nor Grandeur Hear With A Disdainful Smile The Short And Simple Annals Of The Poor.

How Low, How Little Are The Proud, How Indigent The Great!

T'was Spring, T'was Summer, All Was Gay Now Autumn Bears A Cloud Brow The Flowers Of Spring Are Swept Way And Summer Fruits Desert The Bough

Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife Their Sober Wishes Never Learn'd To Stray; Along The Cool Sequester'd Vale Of Life They Kept The Noiseless Tenor Of Their Way.

And Truth Severe, By Fairy Fiction Drest.