Hath but a few times risen and roll'd,
Unnoticed still by thee,—
To whom the toil of breath is new,
In this our vale of time
Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread
The grassy carpet round thee spread
At the soft, vernal prime,—
Deep sympathy and pitying care
Regard thy helpless moan,
And 'neath thy forehead arching high