Might I not wholly mute or useless be;
But hope that they, who trampled o’er my head,
Drew still some good from me;
Might verse of mine inspire
One virtuous aim, one high resolve impart;
Light in one drooping soul a hallowed fire,
Or bind one broken heart;—
Death would be sweeter then,
More calm my slumber ’neath the silent sod,—
Might I thus live to bless my fellow-men,