Life Is But Sighs; And, When They

O Music! How It Grieves Me That Imprudence, Intemperance, Gluttony, Should Open Their Channels Into Thy Sacred Stream.

There Is Delight In Singing, Though None Hear Beside The Singer.

The Present, Like A Note In Music, Is Nothing But As It Appertains To What Is Past And What Is To Come.

To My Ninth Decade I Have Totter'd On, And No Soft Arm Bends Now My Steps To Steady; She, Who Once Led Me Where She Would, Is Gone, So When He Calls Me, Death Shall Find Me Ready.

Hope Is The Mother Of Faith.