GEORGE SEWELL

The coward sneaks to death; the brave live on.

When all the blandishments of life are gone, The coward sneaks to death, the brave live on.

Fear is the tax that conscience pays to guilt.

Vain empty words / Of honour, glory and immortal fame, / Can these recall the spirit from its place, / Or re-inspire the breathless clay with life? / What tho' your fame with all its thousand trumpets, / Sound o'er the sepulchres, will that awake / The sleeping dead.

The coward sneaks to death; the brave live on.

Fear is the tax that conscience pays to guilt.

When all the blandishments of life are gone, The coward sneaks to death, the brave live on.

Vain empty words / Of honour, glory and immortal fame, / Can these recall the spirit from its place, / Or re-inspire the breathless clay with life? / What tho' your fame with all its thousand trumpets, / Sound o'er the sepulchres, will that awake / The sleeping dead.