Low on his funeral couch he lies!

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

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

A fav'rite has no friend!

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

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.

Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.