TO TIME.

Time! on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to die —

Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load, For now I bear the weight alone.

I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee — since thou couldst spare All that I loved, to peace or Heaven.

To them be joy or rest — on me Thy future ills shall press in vain; I nothing owe but years to thee, A debt already paid in pain.

Yet even that pain was some relief; It felt, but still forgot thy power: The active agony of grief Retards, but never counts the hour.

In joy I've sighed to think thy flight Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light, But could not add a night to Woe;

For then, however drear and dark, My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To prove thee — not Eternity.

That beam hath sunk — and now thou art A blank — a thing to count and curse Through each dull tedious trifling part, Which all regret, yet all rehearse.

One scene even thou canst not deform — The limit of thy sloth or speed When future wanderers bear the storm Which we shall sleep too sound to heed.

And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon — a nameless stone.