With holy hope of nobler time to come.
* * * *
But why on time so lavish is my song?
On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school
To teach her sons herself. Each night we die—
Each morn are born anew; each day a life;
And shall we kill each day? If trifling kills,
Sure vice must butcher. Oh, what heaps of slain
Cry out for vengeance on us; time destroyed
Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.