E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.

They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.