The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

Prayer ardent opens heaven.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

However smothered under former negligence, or scattered through the dull, dark mass of common thoughts - let thy genius rise as the sun from chaos.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.