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Of Beauty's short-livde houre—
And Glory's dark eclipse!
Or, wouldst thou rather chuse
This World's leaf to peruse,
Beneath some dripping vault
That scornes rude Time's assaulte;
Whose close-ribbed arches still
Frown in their green old age,
And stamp an awfull chill
Upon that pregnant page?
Yes, thither let us turne,
To this Time-shattered urne,
And quaintly carved stone—
(Dim wrackes of ages gone;)
Here on this mouldering tomb
We'll con that noblest truth,
The Flesh and Spirit's doome—
Dust and Immortall Youthe.
