Out from life’s hour glass we must see our sands have nearly run,
And we with social scenes in life shall surely soon have done.
Be this improved, then, for our good; our last days be our best,
And in the final gathering we be found among the blest.
On us is seen th’ effect of age; we see the furrowed brow.
Time’s stern realities o’ertake, and we are forced to bow.
Compared the once bright, sparkling eye, the rosy, blooming cheek,
Our present looks, infirmities, and form, do volumes speak.
Though some most helpless, others bowed, on all is seen decay,
There’re those o’er three-score years and ten who’re youthful, blithe, and gay.