In every joy of life the hours had fled,
Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by,
'Till age with silver hairs had grac'd thy head,
Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die.
And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around
The ample wealth by lavish fortune given,
Thy parted spirit had that justice found,
And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to heaven.
BION.
ELEGY.
THE DECAYED FARM-HOUSE.
'Mid mighty ruins mould'ring to decay,
The letter'd traveller delights to roam;
The antique pile or column to survey,
And trace faint legends on the crumbling dome.
They court proud cities of historic name,
By desolation's giant arm subdu'd,
And meditate the spot once dear to fame,
Where Balbec flourish'd, or Palmyra stood.
The muse delights to court a lone retreat,
And far from these illustrious scenes to stray;
Uprear'd by folly for ambition's seat,
By vice and folly fall'n, now tottering to decay.
She loves to meditate the humbler spot,
Where untrick'd nature pours the rude sublime;
Where rural hands have rear'd the rural cot,
Decaying now beneath the touch of time.
"Yon farm-house totters, by the tempest beat,
The marks of age its antique chimnies bear;
Sure no sad master owns the cheerless seat,
Say, passing shepherd, who has sojourn'd there?"