



















COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA, 


Thus from crowds and noise removy’d. 
Let each moment be improy’d; 
Every object still produce, 
Thoughts of pleasure, and of use. 
When some river slides away, 
To increase the boundless sea : 
Think we then, how time does haste, 
To grow eternity at last. | 
By the willows, on the banks, 
Gathered into social ranks, 
Playing with the gentle winds, 
Straight the boughs, and smooth the rinds, 
Moist each fibre and each top, 
Wearing a luxurious crop, 
Let the time of youth be shown, 
The time, alas! too soon outgrown. 
Whilst a lonely stubborn oak, 
Which no breezes can provoke, 
No less gusts persuade to moye, 
Than those, which in a whirlwind drove, 
Spoil’d the old paternal feast, 
And left alive but one poor guest. 
Rivell’'d the distorted trunk, 
Sapless limb, all bent and shrunk, 
Sadly does the time presage, 
Of our too near approaching age. 


