240 jFfr- 
Than all who fell, than one who rose, 
Than many unwithstood— 
Not gold, nor blood, their altar dowers, 
But native tears and symbol flowers. 
Oh cease! must hate and death return ? 
Cease! must men kill and die ? 
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn 
Of bitter prophecy. 
The world is weary of the past— 
Oh, might it die or rest at last! 
Shelley. 
Time past and time to come are not— 
Time present is our only lot; 
0 God, henceforth our hearts incline 
To seek no other love than thine ! 
Montgomery. 
Then haste thee, Time—’tis kindness all 
That speeds thy winged feet so fast; 
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, 
And all thy pains are quickly past. 
Bryant. 
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, 
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 
A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: 
Those scraps are good deeds past: which are de¬ 
voured 
As fast as they are made, forgotten as soon 
As done. 
Shakspeare. 
