’Tis Fancy’s child, and folly is its father;

Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseless

As the fantastic visions of the evening.

Cotton.

As Time glides on in silent flow,

To-day yields to to-morrow;

To-morrow’s expectations grow

To-day’s own bliss or sorrow.

Still, as to-morrow’s sun appears,

It shines upon to-day;