Though youth may boast the curls that flow
In sunny waves of auburn glow;
As graceful on thy hoary head
Has Time the robe of honour spread,
And there, oh! softly, softly shed
His wreath of snow!
As frost-work on the trees display’d
When weeping Flora leaves the shade,
E’en more than Flora, charms the sight;
E’en so thy locks of purest white