A man that's fond precociously of stirring

There's not a string attuned to mirth But has its chord in melancholy.

And there is ev'n a happiness That makes the heart afraid!

I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day;

His death which happened in his berth, At forty-odd befell: They went and told the sexton, and The sexton tolled the bell.

I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart.