Fond wooers come with flattering tale, And load with sighs the passing gale, And love-distracted rave: p. 219But hark, fair maid! whate’er they say, You’re but a breathing mass of clay, Fast ripening for the grave. p. 219 Behold how thievish Time has been! Full eighteen summers you have seen, And yet they seem a day? Whole years, collected in Time’s glass, In silent lapse how soon they pass, And steal your life away! The flying hour none can arrest, Nor yet recall one moment past, And what more dread must seem Is, that to-morrow’s not your own— Then haste! and ere your life has flown The subtle hours redeem. Attend with care to what I sing: Know time is ever on the wing; None can its flight detain; Then, like a pilgrim passing by, Take home this hint, as time does fly, “All earthly things are vain.” Let nothing here elate your breast, Nor, for one moment, break your rest, In heavenly wisdom grow: Still keep your anchor fixed above, Where Jesus reigns in boundless love, And streams of pleasure flow. So shall your life glide smoothly by Without a tear, without a sigh, And purest joys will crown p. 220Each birthday, as the year revolves, Till this clay tenement dissolves, And leaves the soul unbound. p. 220 Then shall you land on Canaan’s shore, Where time and chance shall be no more, And joy eternal reigns; There, mixing with the seraphs bright, And dressed in robes of heavenly light, You’ll raise angelic strains. THE IRISH CABIN. Should poverty, modest and clean, E’er please, when presented to view, Should cabin on brown heath, or green, Disclose aught engaging to you, Should Erin’s wild harp soothe the ear When touched by such fingers as mine, Then kindly attentive draw near, And candidly ponder each line. One day, when December’s keen breath Arrested the sweet running rill, And Nature seemed frozen in death, I thoughtfully strolled o’er the hill: The mustering clouds wore a frown, The mountains were covered with snow, And Winter his mantle of brown Had spread o’er the landscape below. Thick rattling the footsteps were heard Of peasants far down in the vale; p. 221From lakes, bogs, and marshes debarred, The wild-fowl, aloft on the gale, Loud gabbling and
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