A Christian is the highest style of man.

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.

As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.

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

To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

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