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Time will not check his eager flight,
Though gentle Agnes scold,
To make young ladies old.
Then listen, Agnes,—Friendship sings;
Seize fast his forelock gray,
A feather every day.
Adorn'd with these, defy his rage,
And bid him plough your face,
Shall be a line of grace.
Start not; old age is Virtue's prime;
Most lovely she appears,
Down in the vale of years.
Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom,
The eternal mountains rise;
Her rest is in the skies.
THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
Shall man of frail fruition boast t
Shall life be counted dear—
A momentary year1
There was a time—that time is past—
A time will come—'tis coming fast—
Like me through varying seasons range,
The fairest, sweetest spring shall change
In infancy, my vernal prime,
When life itself was new,
Yet swifter still he flew.
Summer my youth succeeded soon
My suu ascended high,
But Grief drove down the sky.
Like Autumn, rich in ripening corn,
My harvest-moon scarce filled her horn,
Close follow'd age, infirm old age,
The winter of my year,
To rise beyond his sphere!
The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female caterpillar
When Evening closes Nature's eye,
To captivate her favourite fly,
Conducted by a sweeter star,
He fondly hastens from afar,
Thus in this wilderness of tears,
The transient torch of Hymen cheers
Unhappy he, whose hopeless eye
Whose cynosure is in the sky,
i conspicuous plantation, encompassing a schoolhouse and playground,
Now peace to his ashes who planted yon trees,
That welcome my wandering eye!
And resemble a grove in the sky!
They flourish in grandeur sublime,
Like the lock on the forehead of Time.
A landmark they rise;—to the stranger forlorn,
All night on the wild heath delay'd,
Unveiling behind their dark shade:
On the line of the gray evening scene,
And the sunset expiring between.
The maidens that gather the fruits of the moor,*
While weary and fainting they roam,
The trees that remind them of home:
Their sports, and in ecstasy gaze,
And their schoolhouse and grove in a blaze.
O! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,
Awakening remembrance most dear:
Wherever its glories appear,
It gladdens my spirit, it soothes from afar
With tranquil and tender delight,
Alone in the desert of night.
It tells me of moments of innocent bliss,
For ever and ever gone o'er;
They were,—but they will be no more.
That leave such endearment behind!
Their twilight still rests on the mind.
Then peace to his ashes who planted those trees!
Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,
All bosoms, and ravish all eyes;
Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave
And scatter their leaves on his grave.
Ah! thus when I sleep in the desolate tomb,
May the laurels I planted endure,
'Midst lightning and tempest secure!
And nations sit under their shade,
Aloft in their branches display'd.
Hence, dream of vain glnry!—the light drop of dew,
That glows in the violet's eye,
May rival a star of the sky;
The star unextinguished shall shine;
And the glories of Paradise mine.