242 JF it. 
Relentless Time! that steals with silent tread, 
Shall tear away the trophies of the dead. 
Fame, on the pyramid’s aspiring top, 
With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop; 
The feeble characters of Glory’s hand 
Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand; 
But not with these expire the sacred flame 
Of virtue, or the good man’s awful name. 
Boivles. 
0 Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay 
Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence 
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 
The faint pang stealest unperceived away; 
On thee I rest my only hope at last, 
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear, 
I may look back on every sorrow past, 
And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile— 
As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour, 
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower 
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:— 
Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, 
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! 
Bowles. 
