The Paths Of Glory Lead But To

Hell Is Full Of Good Intentions.

The Meanest Flowret Of The Vale, / The Simplest Note That Swells The Gale, / The Common Sun, The Air, And Skies, / To Him Are Opening Paradise.

Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

To Each His Suff'rings: All Are Men, / Condemn'd Alike To Groan, / The Tender For Another's Pain; / Th' Unfeeling For His Own.