The prize be sometimes with the fool,

The race not always to the swift.

The strong may yield, the good may fall,

The great man he a vulgar clown,

The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design?

Blessed be He who took and gave!

Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,

Be weeping at her darling's grave? *