To a Mother on a Child's Death

The scythe of time, alas ! alas !
Always cuts down the freshest grass,
Nor spares the flowers that would adorn
The tranquil brow of blooming morn :
He lets the corn grow ripe, then why
Bids he the germ be knipt and die ?

Ianthe took me by both ears and said
You are so rash, I own I am afraid.

Prop, or keep hidden in your breast, my name,
But be your love as lasting as your fame.

All men are liars, said a sage of old.

He was not, he who this sad tale hath told.