But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

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

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.

The soul of man was made to walk the skies.

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

Prayer ardent opens heaven.

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