A few verses from, Elegy Written in a Country Graveyard, by Thomas Gray, a poem that moved me as a child at school, and still one of my favourites.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
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?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
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.