Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
Ah, tell them they are men!
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Low on his funeral couch he lies!