From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day; and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.

Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.

Good, the more communicated, more abundant grows.

From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.

And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?

Believe and be confirmed.

Come knit hands, and beat the ground in a light fantastic round