[Pg 14]

"Yet, ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!

That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

The Nightingale that on the branches sang,

Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows?"

"So does it seem—no other joys like these!

Yet Summer comes, and Autumn's honoured ease;

And wintry Age, is't ever whisperless

Of that Last Spring, whose Verdure may not cease?"

"Still, would some winged Angel ere too late

Arrest the yet unfolded roll of Fate,

And make the stern Recorder otherwise

Enregister, or quite obliterate!"

"To otherwise enregister believe

He toils eternally, nor asks Reprieve.

And could Creation perfect from his hands

Have come at Dawn, none overmuch should grieve."

[Pg 15]

So till the wan and early scent of day

We strove, and silent turned at last away,

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