The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

Implores The Passing Tribute Of A Sigh.

Youth Smiles Without Any Reason. It Is One Of Its Chiefest Charms.

The Boast Of Heraldry, The Pomp Of Pow'r, And All That Beauty, All That Wealth E'er Gave, Awaits Alike Th' Inevitable Hour. The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.

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.