Tell me,

the charms that lovers seek

In the clear eye and blushing cheek,

The hues that play

O'er rosy lip and brow of snow,

When hoary age approaches slow,

Ah, where are they?

The cunning skill, the curious arts,

The glorious strength that youth imparts

In life's first stage;

These shall become a heavy weight,

When Time swings wide his outward gate

To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name,

Heroes emblazoned high to fame,

In long array;

How, in the onward course of time,

The landmarks of that race sublime

Were swept away!

Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust,

Shall rise no more;

Others, by guilt and crime, maintain

The scutcheon, that, without a stain,
Their fathers bore.

Wealth and the high estate of pride,
With what untimely speed they glide,
How soon depart!

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,

Of fickle heart.

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found;

Her swift-revolving wheel turns round,
And they are gone!

No rest the inconstant goddess knows,

But changing, and without repose,

Still hurries on.

Even could the hand of avarice save

Its gilded bawbles, till the grave
Reclaimed its prey,

Let none on such poor hopes rely;

Life, like an empty dream, flits by,
And where are they?

Earthly desires and sensual lust

Are passions springing from the dust,—

They fade and die;

But, in the life beyond the tomb,

They seal the immortal spirit's doom Eternally!

The pleasures and delights which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task,

What are they, all,

But the fleet coursers of the chase,

And death an ambush in the race,

Wherein we fall?

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, Brook no delay, but onward speed With loosened rein;

And when the fatal snare is near,

We strive to check our mad career, But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart, And fashion with a cunning art

The human face,

As we can clothe the soul with light, And make the glorious spirit bright

With heavenly grace,

How busily each passing hour

Should we exert that magic power!

What ardor show,

To deck the sensual slave of sin,

Yet leave the freeborn soul within

In weeds of woe!

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,

Famous in history and in song

Of olden time,

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate

Their race sublime.

Who is the champion? who the strong?

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? On these shall fall

As heavily the hand of Death,

As when it stays the shepherd's breath Beside his stall.

I speak not of the Trojan name,-
Neither its glory nor its shame

Has met our eyes;

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead,

Though we have heard so oft, and read, Their histories.