TIME.

O Lord, Thou art my God: my times are in Thy hand.—Psalm xxxi. 14, 15.

It is time to seek the Lord.—Hosea, x. 12.

It shall come to pass that at evening time it shall be light.—Zechariah, xiv. 7.

But this I say, brethren, the time is short.—I. Corinthians, vii. 29.

Behold, now is the accepted time: behold, now is the day of salvation.—II. Corinthians, vi. 2.

And the angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the earth, lifted up his hand to heaven,

And sware by him that liveth for ever and ever, that there should be time no longer.—Revelation, x. 5, 6.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,

Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,

And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,

And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow;

Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.

Shakspere.

Misshapen time, copesmate of ugly night;

Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care;

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,

Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, virtue’s snare:

Thou nursest all, and murderest all that are.

Shakspere.

Time’s glory is to calm contending kings,

To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light;

To stamp the seal of time on aged things,

To wake the morn, and sentinel the night,

To wrong the wronger, till he render right.

Shakspere.

Time is so swift that none can match his course,—

Time is so strong that none can match his force:

Like to a thiefe Time stealingly doth haste;

No man can call Time backe when Time is past.

*****

Time is as swift as thought—the swift’st-wing’d swallow

Cannot endure the flight of Time to follow:

Time is of the Ubiquitaries’ race,—

Time’s here, Time’s there, Time is in every place;

Time is divided in a three-fold sum,

Time past, Time present, and the Time to come.

A present Time I presently intreat,

For therein lies the sum of my conceit,

For Time (once past) can never be recall’d.

And therefore Time is figured to be bald.

Peter Small.

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,

Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whose speed is but the heavy plummet’s pace,

And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,

Which is no more than what is false and vain,

And merely mortal dross;

So little is our loss,

So little is our gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,

And last of all thy greedy self consum’d,

Then long eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss;

And joy shall overtake us as a flood,

And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine,

About the supreme throne

Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone,

When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,

Then all this earthly grossness quit,

Attir’d with stars, we shall for ever sit

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time!

Milton.

Throw years away!

Throw empires, and be blameless. Moments seize

Heavens on their wing: a moment we may wish,

When worlds want wealth to buy.

Young.

O Time! than gold more sacred; more a load

Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise.

What moment granted man without account?

What years are squandered, wisdom’s debt unpaid!

Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.

Young.

Time as he passes us, has a dove’s wing,

Unroil’d and swift, and of a silken sound;

But the World’s Time, is Time in masquerade!

Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged,

With motley plumes; and where the peacock shews

His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red

With spots quadrangular of diamond form,

Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,

And spades, the emblems of untimely graves.

Cowper.

“Why sits thou by that ruin’d hall,

Thou aged carle so stern and grey?

Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it pass’d away?”

“Know’st thou not me?” the deep voice cried,

“So long enjoyed, so oft misused—

Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused?

Before my breath, like smoking flax,

Man and his marvels pass away,

And changing empires wane and wax,

Are founded, flourish, and decay.

Redeem mine hours—the space is brief

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,

And measureless thy joy or grief,

When time and thou shalt part for ever!”

Sir Walter Scott.

Time speeds away—away—away:

Another hour—another day—

Another month—another year—

Drop from us like the leaflet sear;

Drop like the life-blood from our hearts;

The rose-bloom from the cheek departs,

The tresses from the temples fall,

The eye grows dim and strange to all.

Time speeds away—away—away,

Like torrent in a stormy day;

He undermines the stately tower,

Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower;

And sweeps from our distracted breast

The friends that loved—the friends that blest;

And leaves us weeping on the shore,

To which they can return no more.

Time speeds away—away—away:

No eagle through the skies of day,

No wind along the hills can flee

So swiftly or so smooth as he.

Like fiery steed—from stage to stage,

He bears us on from youth to age;

Then plunges in the fearful sea

Of fathomless eternity.

Knox.

Time, as he courses onwards, still unrolls

The volume of concealment. In the future,

As in the optician’s glassy cylinder,

The undistinguishable blots and colours

Of the dim past collect and shape themselves,

Upstarting in their own completed image

To scare, or to reward.

Coleridge.

And who is he, the vast, the awful form,

Girt with the whirlwind, sandalled with the storm?

A western cloud around his limbs is spread,

His crown a rainbow, and a sun his head,

To highest Heaven he lifts his kingly hand,

And treads at once the ocean and the land;

And hark! His voice amid the thunder’s roar,

His dreadful voice—that time shall be no more!

Bishop Heber.

I ask’d an aged man, a man of cares,

Wrinkled, and curved, and white with hoary hairs;

“Time is the warp of life,” he said, “Oh, tell

The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well!”

I ask’d the ancient, venerable dead,

Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled;

From the cold grave a hollow murmur flow’d,

“Time sow’d the seed we reap in this abode!”

I ask’d a dying sinner, ere the tide

Of life had left his veins.—“Time!” he replied;

“I’ve lost it! ah, the treasure!” and he died.

I ask’d the golden sun and silver spheres,

Those bright chronometers of days and years;

They answered, “Time is but a meteor glare,”

And bade us for Eternity prepare.

I ask’d the Seasons, in their annual round,

Which beautify or desolate the ground;

And they replied, (no oracle more wise,)

“’Tis folly’s blank, and wisdom’s highest prize!”

I ask’d a spirit lost, but oh, the shriek

That pierc’d my soul! I shudder while I speak!

It cried, “a particle! a speck! a mite

Of endless years, duration infinite!”

Of things inanimate, my dial I

Consulted, and it made me this reply—

“Time is the season fair of living well,

The path of glory, or the path of hell!”

I ask’d my Bible, and methinks it said,

“Time is the present hour, the past is fled;

Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet

On any living being rose or set!”

I ask’d old Father Time himself at last;

But in a moment he flew swiftly past:—

His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind

His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind.

I ask’d a mighty angel, who shall stand

One foot on sea, and one on solid land:

“By Heaven,” he cried, “I swear the mystery’s o’er;

Time was,” he cried, “but Time shall be no more!”

Joshua Marsden.

O Time! the fatal wreck of mortal things,

That draws oblivion’s curtains over kings.

Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,

Their names without a record, are forgot,

Their parts, their ports, their pomp’s all laid i’ the dust,

Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings, ’scape Time’s rust;

But he whose name is ’graved in the white stone,

Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

Mrs. Anne Bradstreet.

Be silent and still, for his end draweth near,

And watch with a quivering breath;

No mortal eye beheld his birth,

But all shall behold his death,

For the nations from every land and clime

Shall gather to gaze on the close of Time.

The Moon shall look down with a tearful eye,

And the Sun shall withhold his fire,

And the hoary Earth, all parched and dry,

Shall flame for his funeral pyre,

When the Angel, that standeth on earth and shore,

Proclaimeth that “Time shall be no more!”

Edward Pollok.

O, God of times, and yet, in time a man!

Before all times thy time of being was;

And yet in time thy human birth began,

Lest we should fade, untimely, like the grass,—

Thou that hast said thy word should never pass,

And thou that dost all times begin and end,—

Vouchsafe thy comfort to my sad soul send.

G. Ellis.

A moment is a mighty thing,

Beyond the soul’s imagining,

For in it, though we trace it not,

How much there crowds of varied lot!

How much of life, life cannot see,

Darts onward to eternity!

While vacant hours of beauty roll

Their magic o’er some yielded soul,

Ah! little do the happy guess

The sum of human wretchedness;

Or dream, amid the soft farewell

That time of them is taking,

How frequent mourns the funeral knell,

What noble heart is breaking,

While myriads to their tombs descend

Without a mourner, creed, or friend!

R. Montgomery.