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Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
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Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious read more
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.
Of all
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show
Who car'd about the corpse? read more
Of all
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show
Who car'd about the corpse? The funeral
Made the attraction, and the black the woe;
There throbb'd not there a thought which pierc'd the pall.
He that unburied lies wants not his hearse,
For unto him a tomb's the Universe.
He that unburied lies wants not his hearse,
For unto him a tomb's the Universe.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
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By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man built that sepulcher,
And no man saw it e'er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod
And laid the dead man there.
Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.
Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.