Poems (Holford)/Time
For works with similar titles, see Time.
TIME.
'Tis but a dull ungrateful saying,
That life and joy are still decaying,
That all is spent in vision-weaving,
A strife of trusting and deceiving;
That time but mocks us as he flies,
Vexes our hearts and cheats our eyes!
Oh! as we mark the hour-glass waning,
How vain, how thriftless our complaining!
Time, o'er my head thy wing has past
With swift, unseen, unconscious haste,
I feel already on my brow
Life's warm, yet temperate noon-day glow;
And shall I heave the ungrateful sigh
That morn has faded from my sky,
Call life a day-dream of deceit,
A scene of toys, a painted cheat,
Which smiles, and promises, and flies—
Because pert Fancy told me lies;
Or with Suspicion's scowling eye
Look onward thro' futurity?
Time, like ourselves, in limits bound,
Enforced runs the allotted round,
And we poor, silly, wayward elves,
Are dupes indeed, but—to ourselves!
Then, farewel hours, and days, and years,
Embalm'd in Memory's grateful tears,
Lov'd for the joys ye led along,
And pardon'd now, each vanish'd wrong?
How many a fragile child of rhyme
Has mock'd thee on thy passage, Time,
Or tried to coax thee on thy way,
Spell-bind thy wing, and win thy stay!
I call thee, but to pay thee, Time,
The tribute of one child of rhyme,
Who thanks thee, that thy wing has shed
So many blessings on her head;
Who thanks thee, for the wreathing bough
Whose verdant leaves entwine her brow;
For that best prize to mortals given,
Which lends our world a gleam from heaven—
Friendship! while life owns such a guest,
Is Time a cheat, a dream, a jest?
No! Time when I have done with thee,
That gift shall gild Eternity!
That life and joy are still decaying,
That all is spent in vision-weaving,
A strife of trusting and deceiving;
That time but mocks us as he flies,
Vexes our hearts and cheats our eyes!
Oh! as we mark the hour-glass waning,
How vain, how thriftless our complaining!
Time, o'er my head thy wing has past
With swift, unseen, unconscious haste,
I feel already on my brow
Life's warm, yet temperate noon-day glow;
And shall I heave the ungrateful sigh
That morn has faded from my sky,
Call life a day-dream of deceit,
A scene of toys, a painted cheat,
Which smiles, and promises, and flies—
Because pert Fancy told me lies;
Or with Suspicion's scowling eye
Look onward thro' futurity?
Time, like ourselves, in limits bound,
Enforced runs the allotted round,
And we poor, silly, wayward elves,
Are dupes indeed, but—to ourselves!
Then, farewel hours, and days, and years,
Embalm'd in Memory's grateful tears,
Lov'd for the joys ye led along,
And pardon'd now, each vanish'd wrong?
How many a fragile child of rhyme
Has mock'd thee on thy passage, Time,
Or tried to coax thee on thy way,
Spell-bind thy wing, and win thy stay!
I call thee, but to pay thee, Time,
The tribute of one child of rhyme,
Who thanks thee, that thy wing has shed
So many blessings on her head;
Who thanks thee, for the wreathing bough
Whose verdant leaves entwine her brow;
For that best prize to mortals given,
Which lends our world a gleam from heaven—
Friendship! while life owns such a guest,
Is Time a cheat, a dream, a jest?
No! Time when I have done with thee,
That gift shall gild Eternity!