Night steals on; and the day takes its farewell, like the words of a departing friend, or the last tone of hallowed music in a minister’s aisles, heard when it floats along the shade of elms, in the still place of graves.

The thundering voice that wrings, in one dark, damning moment, crimes of years!

Thought can wing its way Swifter than lightning-flashes or the beam That hastens on the pinions of the morn.

Green sods are all their monument; and yet it tells A nobler history than pillared piles, Or the eternal pyramids.

Our thoughts are boundless, though our frames are frail, Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay; Though darken'd in this poor life by a veil Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play In truth's eternal sunbeams; on the way To heaven's high capitol our cars shall roll; The temple of the Power whom all obey, That is the mark we tend to, for the soul Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.

O rose! the sweetest blossom, Of spring the fairest flower, O rose! the joy of heaven. The god of love, with roses His yellow locks adorning, Dances with the hours and graces.

Happy the life, that in a peaceful stream, Obscure, unnoticed through the vale has flow'd; The heart that ne'er was charm'd by fortune's gleam Is ever sweet contentment's blest abode.

In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.

Sweet flower, thou tellest how hearts as pure and tender as thy leaf, as low and humble as thy stem, will surely know the joy that peace imparts.

Night steals on; and the day takes its farewell, like the words of a departing friend, or the last tone of hallowed music in a minister's aisles, heard when it floats along the shade of elms, in the still place of graves.