No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.

How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm! I thank thee, night! for thou has chased away these horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate; and with the blessing of thy benign and quiet influence now will I to my couch, although to rest is almost wronging such a night as this.

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?