TIME.
I saw him hasting on his way,
And mark'd his lightning flight,
Where'er he mov'd, there stern decay
Spread its destructive blight.
Rapid the gloomy phantom hied,
Envelop'd in the storm—
His eyes shone out in sullen pride,
And fearful was his form.
I saw him grasp the Warrior's wreath,
Won in the gory fray—
The laurel withering sunk in death,
Its beauty fled away,
That wreath was stained with bloody dew,
Unhallowed was its bloom—
It met the phantom's chilling view,
And bow'd beneath its gloom.
I saw him pass by Beauty's bower,
And listen to her lay;
Around the spot was many a flower
Blooming its summer day;
With icy heart the spectre came,
Her lovely form compress'd;
She met his lurid eye of flame—
The tombstone tells the rest.
On Youth's warm brow his hand he prest,
'Twas cold as mouldering clay—
He laid his hand on Manhood's breast,
The life-pulse ceas'd to play.
His fell siroc o'er Nature passed,
And low she drooped her head—
Her blossoms withered in the blast,
And all her verdure fled.
Florio.
[Hudson Whig.