And in Life's noisiest hour, There whispers still the ceaseless Love of Thee, The heart's Self-solace and soliloquy. You mould my Hopes, you fashion me within.

Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks.

And looking to the Heaven, that bends above you, How oft! I bless the Lot, that made me love you.

How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits If any man obtain …

Bend low, O dusky Night, And give my spirit rest, Hold me to your deep breast, And put old cares to flight. Give back the lost delight That once my soul posses…

Hope raises no dust.

And Love, our light at night and shade at noon, Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns away All shafts of shelterless tumultuous day.