The Hour-Glass
O think, fair maid! these sands that pass
In slender threads adown this glass,
Were once the body of some swain,
Who lov'd too well and lov'd in vain,
And let one soft sigh heave thy breast, 5
That not in life alone unblest
E'en lovers' ashes find no rest.
First published in The Courier, August 30, 1811; included in Essays on His Own Times, iii. 994. Now collected for the first time.
The original is a translation of a Latin Epigram, 'Horologium Pulvereum, Tumulus Alcippi,' by Girolamo Amaltei.
9
The Poetaster. Act I, Scene 1.
O my Tibullus,
Let us not blame him; for against such chances
The heartiest strife of virtue is not proof.
We may read constancy and fortitude
To other souls; but had ourselves been struck 5
With the like planet, had our loves, like his,
Been ravished from us by injurious death,
And in the height and heat of our best days,
It would have cracked our sinews, shrunk our veins,
And made our very heart-strings jar like his. 10
Let us not blame him: for against such chances
The heartiest strife of manhood is scarce proof.
We may read constancy and fortitude
To other souls—but had ourselves been struck
Even in the height and heat of our keen wishing,
It might have made our heart-strings jar, like his.