Yet when they reach this cloud-environ’d globe,
These messengers assume a sable robe.
On then, ye years! accelerate your flight;
Ye’ll sooner cross the realm of murky night,
On, on, unresting! till your pinions, riven,
Drop down exhausted in the vault of heaven!
And thou, O Time,
The sage sublime,
Nobly obedient to the King Eternal,
Shalt lay thy silver’d head to peaceful rest,