text_original: This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head; And, stung with fear Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear Upon his bed; Then, sighing, whispered, _Happy are the dead! What peace doth now Rock him asleep below!
text_transcription: THIS PAST I THREW THE CLOTHES QUITE OVER HIS HEAD AND STUNG WITH FEAR OF MY OWN FRAILTY DROPPED DOWN MANY A TEAR UPON HIS BED THEN SIGHING WHISPERED HAPPY ARE THE DEAD WHAT PEACE DOTH NOW ROCK HIM ASLEEP BELOW
phonemes: ðɪs pˈæst, aɪ θɹˈuː ðə klˈoʊðz kwˈaɪt ˈɔːɹ hɪz hˈɛd; ænd, stˈʌŋ wɪð fˈɪɹ ʌv maɪ ˈoʊn fɹˈeɪlti, dɹˈɑːpt dˌaʊn mˈɛni ɐ tˈɪɹ əpˌɑːn hɪz bˈɛd; ðˈɛn, sˈaɪɪŋ, wˈɪspɚd, hˈæpi ɑːɹ ðə dˈɛd! wˌʌt pˈiːs dʌθ nˈaʊ ɹˈɑːk hˌɪm ɐslˈiːp bᵻlˈoʊ!