Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

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

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

The soft whispers of the God in man.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

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

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!