The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

Hands That The Rod Of Empire Might Have Sway'd, Or Waked To Ecstasy The Living Lyre.

The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

E'en From The Tomb The Voice Of Nature Cries, E'en In Our Ashes Live Their Wonted Fires.

Alas, Regardless Of Their Doom, The Little Victims Play! No Sense Have They Of Ills To Come Nor Care Beyond Today.

Large Was His Bounty, And His Soul Sincere, Heaven Did A Recompense As Largely Send: He Gave To Mis'ry (all He Had) A Tear, He Gained From Heav'n ('t Was All He Wish'd) A Friend.