Whistling Aloud To Bear His Courage Up.

Of Joys Departed, Not To Return, How Painful The Remembrance

When It Draws Near To Witching Time Of Night.

The Good He Scorn'd Stalk'd Off Reluctant, Like An Ill-us'd Ghost, Not To Return; Or If It Did, Its Visits Like Those Of Angels, Short, And Far Between.

How Blunt Are All The Arrows Of Thy Quiver In Comparison With Those Of Guilt.

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.