I Shall Be But A Shrimp Of

Visions Of Glory, Spare My Aching Sight! Ye Unborn Ages, Crowd Not On My Soul!

Bright-eyed Fancy, Hov'ring O'er, Scatters From Her Pictured Urn Thoughts That Breathe And Words That Burn.

Dear As The Light That Visits These Sad Eyes, Dear As The Ruddy Drops That Warm My Heart.

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.

To Brisk Notes In Cadence Beating, Glance Their Many-twinkling Feet.