The highest hopes of the heart in saddest of sorrows grow,
  The purest pleasures of joy arise in the wane of woe;
  The gladdest smiles of the lips are seen in the hours of pain,
  And proudest days of the free are spent by the broken chain.

  The grandest deeds of the race are writ on the faded scroll,
  The truest rivers of good from villainous fountains roll;
  The perfect raptures of life are reared in the arms of care,
  And Hope with her joys dispels the darkness of our despair.

MY MOLLIE, O!

  ’Twas in the summer’s sweet perfume,
    When roses bloomed and holly, O,
  That in the brightness of her bloom,
    I first did meet my Mollie, O.

  Although she said for lives to love
    Was nothing but pure folly, O,
  My heart was lit with light above,
    And I true loved my Mollie, O.

  O, swift and fast the days did flee
    And seemed most bright and jolly, O,
  For evermore was near to me
    My fair and lovely Mollie, O.

  Now I doth sit through all the day
    And nurse my melancholy, O,
  For from me she has turned away,
    O, false and fickle Mollie, O!

SING NOT OF BEAUTY.

  Sing not of beauty’s grace to me;
    Its very name a story tells
  Of doubly dark inconstancy,
    Love falser than a hundred hells.

  Its face is often but a screen
    To hide a devil’s heart of guile,
  Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien,
    By winning looks of heartless wile.

  Its laughing smile is but the gleam
    That springs from dross of foulest make;
  It stirs a sweet but idle dream,
    Then leaves the trusting heart to break.

  Sing not of beauty’s grace to me;
    I can not bear to hear the name;
  For, oh!  Too oft in it I see
    A soul of falsehood and of shame!

AT EVENTIDE.

  At eventide, when glories lie
  In crimson curtains hung on high,
    And all the breast of heaven glows
    With mingled wreaths of flowers and snows,
  The dearest dreams of life draw nigh.

  The pleasures in their soft robes fly
  With angel wings adown the sky,
    And rapture lulls to sweet repose,
      At eventide.

  Ah, well-a-day!  Life’s weary cry,
  And all its curse and care shall die,
    When Age on downy couches throws
    His weary limbs and only knows
  The tender dreams of bye-and-bye,
      At eventide!

WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES.

  When Christmas comes, what pleasures spring
  From drooping hearts on happy wing,
    Like joyous birds that soaring rise
    From hidden coverts to the skies. 
  And echo in the chimes that ring!

  Glad millions in wild rapture sing
  Hosannaed hopes of welcoming,
    While praises blend in harmonies,
      When Christmas comes.