’Till age had strew’d its winters o’er his head:
Till life’s enjoyment could no longer charm,
And earthly pleasures had forever fled.
Then thine approach more welcome would have been,
And less regretted thy reverseless doom;
Age would have render’d thy attack less keen,
And smooth’d the rugged passage to the tomb.
But youth—luxuriant season of delight,
When pleasing fancies fill the teeming brain;
Was soon by thee transform’d to endless night—