To Each His Suff'rings: All

E'en From The Tomb The Voice Of Nature Cries, E'en In Our Ashes Live Their Wonted Fires.

Bright-eyed Fancy, Hov'ring O'er, Scatters From Her Pictured Urn Thoughts That Breathe And Words That Burn.

Ah, Happy Hills! Ah, Pleasing Shade! Ah, Fields Beloved In Vain! Where Once My Careless Childhood Stray'd, A Stranger Yet To Pain! I Feel The Gales That From Ye Blow A Momentary Bliss Bestow.

And Weep The More, Because I Weep In Vain.

Alas, Regardless Of Their Doom, The Little Victims Play! No Sense Have They Of Ills To Come Nor Care Beyond Today.