Its visits, like those of angels, short, and far between.

But if there be an hereafter,And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'dAnd suffer'd to speak out, tells every man,Then must it be an awful thing to die;More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.

The good he scorn'd Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost, Not to return; or if it did, its visits Like those of angels, short, and far between.

How shocking must thy summons be, O death, to him that is at ease in his possessions! who, counting on long years of pleasure here, is quite unfurnished for the world to come.

When it draws near to witching time of night.

Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.

Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.