the more we live, more brief appearour life's succeeding stages;a day to childhood seems a year,and years like passing ages.
the gladsome current of our youth,ere passion yet disorders,steals lingering like a river smooth,along its grassy borders.
but as the care-worn cheets grow wan,and sorrow's shafts fly thicker,ye stars, that measure life to man,why seem your courses quicker?
when joys have lost their bloom and breathand life itself is vapid,why, as we reach the falls of death,feel we its tide more rapid?
it may be strange-yet who would changetime's coures to slower speeding,when one by one our friends have goneand left our bosoms bleeding?
heaven gives our years of fading strengthindemnifying fleetness;and those of youth,a seeming length,proportion'd their sweetness.
