Will give the glorious crown, which thou hast won!
11. MISERABLE OLD AGE.
'Tis weary through the race of life to run,
Expos'd to noon-tide heat and chilly night,
Mid storms, that well the boldest may affright,
When clouds with lightnings arm'd obscure the sun.
Our cares are vain; the good is never won;
Sweet joys are fleeting as the meteor's light;
Unfix'd as shadows are our hopes most bright;