Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.

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

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.

A friend is worth all hazards we can run.

The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.

Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."