The Paths Of Glory Lead But To

Some Village Hampden, That With Dauntless Breast The Little Tyrant Of His Fields Withstood, Some Mute Inglorious Milton Here May Rest, Some Cromwell Guiltless Of His Country's Blood.

The Applause Of List'ning Senates To Command, The Threats Of Pain And Ruin To Despise, To Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling Land, And Read Their History In A Nation's Eyes.

The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow, Chastis'd By Sabler Tints Of Woe.

Alas, Regardless Of Their Doom, The Little Victims Play! No Sense Have They Of Ills To Come Nor Care Beyond Today.

Beyond The Limits Of A Vulgar Fate, Beneath The Good How Far,-but Far Above The Great.