How Blunt Are All The

When It Draws Near To Witching Time Of Night.

Industry Is Not Only The Instrument Of Improvement, But The Foundation Of Pleasure. He Who Is A Stranger To It May Possess, But Cannot Enjoy, For It Is Labor Only Which Gives Relish To Pleasure. It Is The Indispensable Condition Of Possessing A Sound Mind In A Sound Body, And It Is The Appointed Vehicle Of Every Good To Man.

The Grave, Dread Thing! Men Shiver When Thou'rt Named: Nature Appalled, Shakes Off Her Wonted Firmness.

Its Visits, Like Those Of Angels, Short, And Far Between.

Our Time Is Fixed, And All Our Days Are Number'd; How Long, How Short, We Know Not:—this We Know, Duty Requires We Calmly Wait The Summons, Nor Dare To Stir Till Heaven Shall Give Permission.