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

Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

Grim-visaged comfortless Despair.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade.

A little while ago, not much more than a few days ago, I was a child who went about in a world of colors, of hard and tangible forms. Everything was mysterious…

To each his suff'rings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain; Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fat…

Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ea…