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.

Gashed with honourable scars,Low in Glory's lap they lie;Though they fell, they fell like stars,Streaming splendour through the sky.

Time is eternity begun.

While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn.

The Dead are like the stars by day; Withdrawn from mortal eye, But not extinct, they hold their way In glory through the sky.

The Dove, on silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.

There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.