Fowle's New Hampshire Gazette And General Advertiser

POET'S CORNER.

ON TIME.

TIME is a post that runs in haste,
To warn me—'Life will soon be past;'
A rushing wind, that sweeps the plain,
Once past, it ne'er returns again.
How the swift ship, with spreading sails,
Drives on before the pressing gales!
So flies my life, o'er billows tost,
Ah, soon 'tis swallowed up and lost.
Time, like an arrow from the string.
Or, like an eagle on the wing,
With awful swiftness cuts its way,
And darts at me—my life's the prey.
The nimble shuttle spends the quill,
My thread's unwinding faster still,
Soon will be wove the web of life,
And destiny thrust in her knife.
Life is a vapour chas'd away
By the first breeze or morning ray,
Or like those nightly, shooting fires,
Whose blaze now kindles—now expires.
It is a vain delusive dream:
A rolling flood, a rapid stream;
We roll along, nor can we find
On earth, a place to rest the mind.
It is a mist hung in the air,
We grasp, but feel no substance there;
A gilded, flatt'ring, flying cloud,
Which mocks our hopes of earthly good.
It is a bubble quickly broke,
A tale forgot as soon as spoke,
A shadow changing with the sun,
Which spreads itself and then is gone.
It is a flow'r scarce seen to rise.
Before it drops it's head and dies;
'Tis fleeting smoke, a puff of breath:
O, then 'tis time to think of DEATH.