It flies with morn, and ne’er returns again.

Death, cruel ravager, delights to prey

Upon the young, the lovely and the gay.

If death appear not, oft corroding pain,

With pining sickness in her languid train,

Blights youth’s gay spring with some untimely blast,

And lays the blooming field of beauty waste;

But should these spare, still time creeps on apace,

And plucks with wither’d hand each winning grace;

The eyes, lips, cheeks, and bosom he disarms,