Thomas Gray

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
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Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield:
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How read more

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield:
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

And to hie him home, at evening's close,
To sweet repast, and calm repose.
. . . read more

And to hie him home, at evening's close,
To sweet repast, and calm repose.
. . . .
From toil we wins his spirits light,
From busy day the peaceful night;
Rich, from the very want of wealth,
In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample room and read more

Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample room and verge enough
The characters of Hell to trace.

The still small voice of gratitude.

The still small voice of gratitude.