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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.

Nor you, ye proud impute to these the fault,

If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise; Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

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Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

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