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poems,
The constant tinkling of the bell,
Along the heath is o'er.
Stern Boreas hurls each piercing gale
With snow-clad wings along,
Discharging volleys mixed with hail
Which chill the breeze of song.
Lo, all the Southern windows close,
Whence spicy breezes roll;
The herbage sinks in sad repose,
And Winter sweeps the whole.
Thus after youth old age comes on,
And brings the frost of time,
And e'er our vigor has withdrawn,
We shed the rose of prime.
Alas! how quick it is the case,
The scion youth is grown—
How soon it runs its morning race,
And beauty's sun goes down.
The Autumn of declining years
Must blanch the father's head,
Encumbered with a load of cares,
When youthful charms have fled.
