I see my hours run on with cruel speed,
    And in my doom the fate of all I read;
    A certain doom, which nature’s self must feel
    When the dread sentence checks the mundane wheel. 
    Go! court the smiles of Hope, ye thoughtless crew! 
    Her fairy scenes disclose an ample view
    To brainless men.  But Wisdom o’er the field
    Casts her keen glance, and lifts her beamy shield
    To meet the point of Fate, that flies afar,
    And with stern vigilance expects the war. 
    Perhaps in vain my admonitions fall,
    Yet still the Muse repeats the solemn call;
    Nor can she see unmoved your senses drown’d
    By Circe’s deadly spells in sleep profound. 
    She cannot see the flying seasons roll
    In dread succession to the final goal,
    And sweep the tribes of men so fast away,
    To Stygian darkness or eternal day,
    With unconcern.—­Oh! yet the doom repeal
    Before your callous hearts forget to feel;
    E’er Penitence foregoes her fruitless toil,
    Or hell’s black regent claims his human spoil
    Oh, haste! before the fatal arrows fly
    That send you headlong to the nether sky
    When down the gulf the sons of folly go
    In sad procession to the seat of woe! 
    Thus deeply musing on the rapid round
    Of planetary speed, in thought profound
    I stood, and long bewail’d my wasted hours,
    My vain afflictions, and my squander’d powers: 
    When, in deliberate march, a train was seen
    In silent order moving o’er the green;
    A band that seem’d to hold in high disdain
    The desolating power of Time’s resistless reign: 
    Their names were hallow’d in the Muse’s song,
    Wafted by fame from age to age along,
    High o’er oblivion’s deep, devouring wave,
    Where millions find an unrefunding grave. 
    With envious glance the changeful power beheld
    The glorious phalanx which his power repell’d,
    And faster now the fiery chariot flew,
    While Fame appear’d the rapid flight to rue,
    And labour’d some to save.  But, close behind,
    I heard a voice, which, like the western wind,
    That whispers softly through the summer shade,
    These solemn accents to mine ear convey’d:—­
    “Man is a falling flower; and Fame in vain
    Strives to protract his momentaneous reign
    Beyond his bounds, to match the rolling tide,
    On whose dread waves the long olympiads ride,
    Till, fed by time, the deep procession grows,
    And in long centuries continuous flows;
    For what the power of ages can oppose? 
    Though Tempe’s rolling flood, or Hebrus claim
    Renown, they soon shall live an empty name. 
    Where are their heroes now, and those who led
    The files of war by Xanthus’ gory bed? 
    Or Tuscan Tyber’s more illustrious band,
    Whose conquering eagles flew