Touch’d by the chilling hand of Time,
Thus fail the joys of manhood’s prime.
The joys of former years are like
The last sweet notes of music, when
Upon your ear they faintly strike,
You know they’ll ne’er be heard again
The breaking harp, last sweetest strain,
Ne’er woke by hand or harp again.
The joys of former years when past,
Seem like a poet’s dream of bliss;