96 
Go, bloom of youth—I will not sigh 
As fleets thy evanescent dye; 
Bright glances, airy steps, farewell! 
Of mirth and vigour though ye tell; 
I will not mourn as I survey 
Each after each in turn decay. 
Take, take, O Time, destroying power ! 
These relics of the youthful hour, 
And, or in mockery or play, 
Weave ’midst my locks thy tresses grey; 
Pass thy rude finger o’er my brow. 
And round my foot thy fetters throw, 
But lightly lay thy spells unkind 
Upon the treasures of the mind, 
Nor seal those sacred founts where lie 
The springs of sensibility. 
May thought still soar, may fancy play, 
Freely as in life’s earlier day; 
May fond affection still possess 
The heart to feel, the hand to bless; 
To woe be pity’s tear still given, 
As to parch’d flower the dew of heaven. 
But chiefly, as I see and feel 
Life’s deepening shadows o’er me steal, 
