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.