Alas, Regardless Of Their Doom,

The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

And Weep The More, Because I Weep In Vain.

Beyond The Limits Of A Vulgar Fate, Beneath The Good How Far,-but Far Above The Great.

Where'er The Oak's Thick Branches Stretch A Broader Browner Shade; Where'er The Rude And Moss-grown Beech O'er-canopies The Glade, Beside Some Water's Rushy Brink With Me The Muse Shall Sit, And Think.

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