Hell Is Full Of Good Intentions.

The Meanest Flowret Of The Vale, / The Simplest Note That Swells The Gale, / The Common Sun, The Air, And Skies, / To Him Are Opening Paradise.

And Hie Him Home, At Evening's Close, To Sweet Repast And Calm Repose.

Can Honor's Voice Provoke The Silent Dust, Or Flattery Soothe The Dull, Cold Ear Of Death?

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

Nor Grandeur Hear With A Disdainful Smile The Short And Simple Annals Of The Poor.