We often praise the evening clouds, And tints so gay and bold, But seldom think upon our God, Who tinged these clouds with gold.

Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, When thought is speech, and speech is truth.

Art thou a friend to Roderick?

Hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.

The sickening pang of hope deferr'd.

In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

It is only when I dally with what I am about, look back and aside, instead of keeping my eyes straight forward, that I feel these cold sinkings of the heart.