Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

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

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

Pygmies are pygmies still, though percht on Alps; And pyramids are pyramids in vales. Each man makes his own stature, builds himself. Virtue alone outbuilds the Pyramids; Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall.

The house of laughter makes a house of woe.