TIME’S SONG.

O’er the level plains, where mountains greet me as I go, O’er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow, On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night, I am riding hence away: who will chain my flight? War his weary watch was keeping,—I have crushed his spear; Grief within her bower was weeping,—I have dried her tear; Pleasure caught a minute’s hold,—then I hurried by, Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry. Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame? Genius said, “I live in story:” who hath heard his name? Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered “Why so fast?” And the roses on his brow withered as I past. I have heard the heifer lowing o’er the wild wave’s bed; I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed; Where began my wandering? Memory will not say! Where will rest my weary wings? Science turns away!