TIME.

London, February, 1780.

"The clock struck one! we take no thought of Time,"

Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme.

All big with vision, we despise the powers

That vulgar beings link to days and hours—

Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts,

And cut our lives in momentary parts.

That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young.

Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue:

What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew,

How much in little space they have to do;

To bid the busy world resign their breath,

And beat each moment a soft call for death—

To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man."

Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can.

It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait;

It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate;

It tells my heart the paralysing tale

Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail.