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These bear the bark, whose stately sail Exulting seems to swell; While these, scarce rippled by a gale, Sleep in the lonely dell.

Yet on, alike, though swift or slow Their various waves may sweep, Through cities or through shades they flow To the same boundless deep.

Oh! thus, whate'er our path of life, Through sunshine or through gloom, Through scenes of quiet or of strife, Its end is still the tomb.

The chief, whose mighty deeds we hail, The monarch throned on high, The peasant in his native vale, All journey on–to die!