Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/152
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THE MARCH OF TIME.
Speeding, still speeding on,
How, none can toil;
Soon ho will bear us
To Heaven or Hell.
How, none can toil;
Soon ho will bear us
To Heaven or Hell.
Dare not then waste thy days,
Reckless and proud;
Lest, while ye dream not,
Death spread thy shroud.
Reckless and proud;
Lest, while ye dream not,
Death spread thy shroud.
Time.
How swift the pinions Time puts on,
To urge his flight away!
To-day's soon yesterday; anon
To-morrow is to-day!
To urge his flight away!
To-day's soon yesterday; anon
To-morrow is to-day!
Thus days, and weeks, and months, and years,
Depart from mortal view;
As sadly, through this "Vale of Tears,"
Our journey we pursue!
Depart from mortal view;
As sadly, through this "Vale of Tears,"
Our journey we pursue!
Yet grieve not, man, that thus ho flics,
Ho hastes thee to thy rest;
The drooping wretch that soonest dies,
Is soonest with the blest!
Ho hastes thee to thy rest;
The drooping wretch that soonest dies,
Is soonest with the blest!
The March of Time.
In the palace, in the cottage,
By the river, by the rill,
Time is ever marching onward,
Ever onward—onward still.
By the river, by the rill,
Time is ever marching onward,
Ever onward—onward still.
Never tiring, never resting,
Neither bending to our will;
Hastening on with even footstep,
Ever onward—onward still,
Neither bending to our will;
Hastening on with even footstep,
Ever onward—onward still,