I ask’d a dying sinner, ere the tide
Of life had left his veins.—“Time!” he replied;
“I’ve lost it! ah, the treasure!” and he died.
I ask’d the golden sun and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years;
They answered, “Time is but a meteor glare,”
And bade us for Eternity prepare.
I ask’d the Seasons, in their annual round,
Which beautify or desolate the ground;
And they replied, (no oracle more wise,)