T'was Spring, T'was Summer, All

They Hear A Voice In Every Wind, And Snatch A Fearful Joy.

Her Track, Where'er The Goddess Roves, Glory Pursue, And Gen'rous Shame, Th' Unconquerable Mind, And Freedom's Holy Flame.

Chill Penury Repress'd Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.

Ye Towers Of Julius, London's Lasting Shame, With Many A Foul And Midnight Murder Fed.

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.