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

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

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

The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.