E'en Beauty mourns in her decaying bower, That Time upon her angel brow should set His crooked autograph, and mar the jet Of glossy locks. Lo! how….

On every thing are traced decay and change. Look! how the shifting seasons slip away..

Time's flying wheel leaves little trace behind..

The rich pearl of life, Soon moulders in its blackened urn, the tomb..

Go and walk with Nature; thou wilt find Full many a gem in her enchanted cup..