Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.

With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.

What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their position and movements.