CHORUS OF HOURS.

Born with the sun, the fair daughters of time,

We silently lead to a lovelier clime,

Where the day is undimmed by the shadows of night,

But eternally beams from the fountain of light;

Where the sorrows of time and its cares are unknown

To the beautiful forms that encircle the throne

Of the mighty Creator! the First and the Last!

Who the wonderful frame of the universe cast,

And composed every link of the mystical chain

Of minutes, and hours, which are numbered in vain

By the children of dust, in their frantic career,

When their moments are wasted unthinkingly here,

Lavished on earth which in mercy were given

That men might prepare for the joys of heaven!—