Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?

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

Wishing of all employments is the worst

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

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