See Yonder Little Cloud, That, Borne Aloft

Who Ne'er His Bread In Sorrow Ate, Who Ne'er The Mournful Midnight Hours Weeping Upon His Bed Has Sate, He Knows You Not, Ye Heavenly Powers.

Day, Like A Weary Pilgrim, Had Reached The Western Gate Of Heaven, And Evening Stooped Down To Unloose The Latchets Of His Sandal Shoon.

The Nimble Lie Is Like The Second-hand Upon A Clock; We See It Fly; While The Hour-hand Of Truth Seems To Stand Still, And Yet It Moves Unseen, And Wins, At Last, For The Clock Will Not Strike Till It Has Reached The Goal.

O Weary Hearts! O Slumbering Eyes! O Drooping Souls, Whose Destinies Are Fraught With Fear And Pain, Ye Shall Be Loved Again.

We Often Excuse Our Own Want Of Philanthropy By Giving The Name Of Fanaticism To The More Ardent Zeal Of Others.