III.=
There is an eye that compasses all,
Good and ill in this earthly ball;
That pierces the dunnest, loneliest cell,
Where wickedness hides, and marks it well!
Years have wheeled their circles round,
And the ancient sexton re-opens the ground;
A weary man at the end of his span,—
Again the bell tolls a funeral sound,
And the nodding plumes pass down the hill,—