Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

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.

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.

Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.