Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!

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.

The Schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.

But if there be an hereafter, And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man, Then must it be an awful thing to die; More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.

Of joys departed, Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

The Grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou 'rt named: Nature, appall'd, Shakes off her wonted firmness.

The cup goes round: And who so artful as to put it by! 'T is long since Death had the majority.