And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

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

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.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.