Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings but himselfThat hideous sight,-a naked human heart.

Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.

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.

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

Mine is the night, with all her stars.

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.