The purpose firm is equal to the deed

[The] public path of life Is dirty.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

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.

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

Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.