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

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

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.

The still small voice of gratitude.

The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.