To Say The Least, A Town Life

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

Who Ne'er His Bread In Sorrow Ate, Who Ne'er The Mournful Midnight Hours Weeping Upon His Bed Has Sate, He Knows You Not, Ye Heavenly Powers.

This Is The Forest Primeval. The Murmuring Pines And The Hemlocks, Bearded With Moss, And In Garments Green, Indistinct In The Twilight, Stand Like Druids Of Eld, With Voices Sad And Prophetic, Stand Like Harpers Hoar, With Beards That Rest On Their Bosoms. Loud From Its Rocky Caverns, The Deep-voiced Neighboring Ocean Speaks, And In Accents Disconsolate Answers The Wail Of The Forest.

For Bells Are The Voice Of The Church; They Have Tones That Touch And Search The Hearts Of Young And Old.

So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest.