E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?