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PART I.
THE days how few, how short the years
of man's too rapid race,
Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,
a shorter in its place?
of man's too rapid race,
Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,
a shorter in its place?
They who the longest lease enjoy,
have told us with a sigh,
That to be born seems little more
than to begin to die.
have told us with a sigh,
That to be born seems little more
than to begin to die.
Numbers there are who feel this truth,
with fears alarm'd; and yet
In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
this weighty truth forget:
with fears alarm'd; and yet
In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
this weighty truth forget:
And am not I to these akin?
age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes;
and am I writing still?
age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes;
and am I writing still?
Conscious of nature in decline,
and languor in my thoughts,
To soften censure, and abate
its rigour on my faults;
and languor in my thoughts,
To soften censure, and abate
its rigour on my faults;
Permit
