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A beauteous type of that unchanging good,
THE LAPSE OF TIME.
LAMENT, who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly;
I sigh not over vanished years,
But watch the years that hasten by.
Look, how they come,-a mingled crowd
What grieve that time has brought so soon The sober age of manhood on?
As idly might I weep at noon,
To see the blush of morning gone.
Could I give up the hopes that glow
In prospect like Elysian isles;
The future-cruel were the power
Whose doom would tear thee from my heart. Thou sweetener of the present hour! We cannot-no-we will not part.
Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight
That makes the changing seasons gay, The grateful speed that brings the night, The swift and glad return of day;
The months that touch, with added grace,
The years, that o'er each sister land
younger commonwealths, for aid, Shall cling about her ample robe, And from her frown shall shrink afraid The crowned oppressors of the globe.
True-time will seam and blanch my
And then, should no dishonor lie
Then haste thee, Time-'tis kindness all That speeds thy winged feet so fast; Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes,
A lighter burden on the heart.