Tis human actions paint the chart of time.

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed, The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of an eye When none but God is near.

Bliss in possession will not last; Remembered joys are never past.

Night is the time to weep,To wet with unseen tearsThose graves of memory where sleepThe joys of other years.

The tulip's petals shine in dew, All beautiful, but none alike.

To-morrow — oh, 'twill never be, If we should live a thousand years! Our time is all to-day, to-day, The same, though changed; and while it flies With still small voice the moments say: "To-day, to-day, be wise, be wise.

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent, a day's march nearer home.