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Reply to some Lines, beginning, "Arrest, 0 Time! thy fleeting course.*

Time will not check his eager flight,

Though gentle Agnes scold,
For 'tis the Sage's dear delight,

To make young ladies old.

Then listen, Agnes,—Friendship sings;

Seize fast his forelock gray,
And pluck from his careering wings

A feather every day.

Adorn'd with these, defy his rage,

And bid him plough your face,
For every furrow of old age

Shall be a line of grace.

Start not; old age is Virtue's prime;

Most lovely she appears,
Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time

Down in the vale of years.

Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom,

The eternal mountains rise;
Virtue descends not to the tomb,—

Her rest is in the skies.

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Shall man of frail fruition boast t

Shall life be counted dear—
Oft but a moment, and, at most,

A momentary year1

There was a time—that time is past—
When, Youth! I bloom'd like thee;

A time will come—'tis coming fast—
When thou shalt fade like me :—

Like me through varying seasons range,
And past enjoyments mourn;—

The fairest, sweetest spring shall change
To winter in its turn.

In infancy, my vernal prime,

When life itself was new,
Amusement pluck'd the wings of Time,

Yet swifter still he flew.

Summer my youth succeeded soon

My suu ascended high,
And Pleasure held the reins till noon,

But Grief drove down the sky.

Like Autumn, rich in ripening corn,
Came manhood's sober reign;

My harvest-moon scarce filled her horn,
When she began to wane.

Close follow'd age, infirm old age,

The winter of my year,
When shall I fall before his rage,

To rise beyond his sphere!

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The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female caterpillar
attracts in the night by the lustre of her train.

When Evening closes Nature's eye,
The Glowworm lights her little spark,

To captivate her favourite fly,
And tempt the rover through the dark.

Conducted by a sweeter star,
Than all that deck the fields above,

He fondly hastens from afar,
To soothe her solitude with love.

Thus in this wilderness of tears,
Amidst the world's perplexing gloom,

The transient torch of Hymen cheers
The pilgrim journeying to the tomb.

Unhappy he, whose hopeless eye
Turns to the light of love in vain;

Whose cynosure is in the sky,
He on the dark and lonely mam





i conspicuous plantation, encompassing a schoolhouse and playground,
on a bleak eminence, at Barlow, in Derbyshire; on the one hand facing
the high moors, on the other overlooking a richly-cultivated, well-
wooded, and mountainous country, near the seat of a gentleman where
the writer has spent many happy hours.

Now peace to his ashes who planted yon trees,

That welcome my wandering eye!
In lofty luxuriance they wave with the breeze,

And resemble a grove in the sky!
On the brow of the mountain, uncultured and bleak,

They flourish in grandeur sublime,
Adorning its bald and majestical peak,

Like the lock on the forehead of Time.

A landmark they rise;—to the stranger forlorn,

All night on the wild heath delay'd,
'Tis rapture to spy the young beauties of Morn

Unveiling behind their dark shade:
The homeward-bound husbandman joys to behold,

On the line of the gray evening scene,
Their branches yet gleaming with purple and gold,

And the sunset expiring between.

The maidens that gather the fruits of the moor,*

While weary and fainting they roam,
Through the blue dazzling distance of noon-light explore

The trees that remind them of home:
The children that range in the valley suspend

Their sports, and in ecstasy gaze,
When they see the broad moon from the summit ascend,

And their schoolhouse and grove in a blaze.

O! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,

Awakening remembrance most dear:
When lonely in anguish and exile I rove,

Wherever its glories appear,

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It gladdens my spirit, it soothes from afar

With tranquil and tender delight,
It shines through my heart, like a hope-beaming star

Alone in the desert of night.

It tells me of moments of innocent bliss,

For ever and ever gone o'er;
Like the light of a smile, like the balm of a kiss,

They were,—but they will be no more.
Yet wherefore of pleasures departed complain,

That leave such endearment behind!
Though the sun of their sweetness be sunk in the main,

Their twilight still rests on the mind.

Then peace to his ashes who planted those trees!

Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,
With simple and lovely magnificence please

All bosoms, and ravish all eyes;
Nor marble, nor brass, could emblazon his fame,

Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave
In graceful memorial, and whisper his name,

And scatter their leaves on his grave.

Ah! thus when I sleep in the desolate tomb,

May the laurels I planted endure,
On the mountain of high imnortality bloom,

'Midst lightning and tempest secure!
Then ages unborn shall their verdure admire,

And nations sit under their shade,
While my spirit, in secret, shall move o'er my lyre,

Aloft in their branches display'd.

Hence, dream of vain glnry!—the light drop of dew,

That glows in the violet's eye,
In the splendour of morn, to a fugitive view,

May rival a star of the sky;
But the violet is pluck'd, and the dewdrop is down,

The star unextinguished shall shine;
Then mine be the laurels of virtue alone,

And the glories of Paradise mine.

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