Like these twin Roses spend your Time, -Life's little, less'ning span; Then be your breasts as free from cares, Your hours as innocent as theirs. And in the infant bud that blows In your encircling arms, Mark the dear promise of a rose, That o'er your withering hours shall shine, Fair, and more fair, as you decline ;— Till, planted in that realm of rest, Where Roses never die, Amidst the gardens of the blest, Beneath a stormless sky, You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod, That blossom'd at the sight of God. TO AGNES. Reply to some Lines, beginning,' Arrest, O Time! 'thy fleeting course.' TIME will not check his eager flight, Though gentle AGNES Scold, For 'tis the Sage's dear delight To make young Ladies old. Then listen, AGNES, friendship sings; Seize fast his forelock grey, And pluck from his careering wings A feather every day. Adorn'd with these, defy his rage, And bid him plough your face, For every furrow of old age Shall be a line of grace. Start not; old age is Virtue's prime ; Most lovely she appears, Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time, Down in the vale of years. Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom, The eternal mountains rise; Virtue descends not to the tomb, Her rest is in the skies. |