POEMS. THE AGES. I. WHEN to the common rest that crowns our days, Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows, And blights the fairest; when our bitter tears Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, We think on what they were, with many fears Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years. |