Time, with his hoary head bent on his hand,
Dream’d of the buried past and turned his sand;
When Folly’s giddy troop, with laughs and jeers,
Passed by the Ancient and reviled his years.
Next Youth’s discordant train approached the sage;
“Youth is the time for mirth,” they cried, “not age.”
The busy throng of life next fleeted by—
Time marked and passed them for eternity.
Evening o’er Mother Earth in silence fell,
As a lone traveller approach’d Time’s cell:
“Tell me,” he said, “O Father Time, tell me,
That which to know I counsel seek of thee;
Earth’s choicest gifts on me are free bestowed,
I tread on Pleasure’s and Life’s brightest road;
Wealth is subservient to my least desire—
Love too inflames me with his sacred fire;
Fain would I know to what these pleasures tend,
Some cloy already—what will be their end?”
Time bowed his head, and answered, ’neath his breath,
“Youth, all these glories have their end in Death.”