Almost all men are over anxious. No sooner do they enter the world than they lose that taste for natural and simple pleasures so remarkable in early life. Every hour do they ask themselves what progress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or honor and on they go as their fathers went before them till weary and sick at heart they look back with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their childhood.

Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.

Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.

Almost all men are over anxious. No sooner do they enter the world than they lose that taste for natural and simple pleasures so remarkable in early life. Every hour do they ask themselves what progress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or honor and on they go as their fathers went before them till weary and sick at heart they look back with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their childhood.

Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.

Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.