The Hours

Ne'er were the Zephyrs known disclosing
More sweets, than when in Tempe's shades
They waved the lilies, where reposing
Sat four-and-twenty lovely maids.
Those lovely maids were call'd "the Hours,"
The charge of Virtue's flock they kept;
And each in turn employ'd her powers
To guard it while her sisters slept.

False Love, how simple souls thou cheatest!
In myrtle bower that traitor near
Long watch'd an Hour—the softest, sweetest—
The evening Hour, to shepherds dear.
In tones so bland he praised her beauty,
Such melting airs his pipe could play;
The thoughtless Hour forgot her duty,
And fled in Love's embrace away.

Meanwhile the fold was left unguarded;
The wolf broke in, the lambs were slain;
And now from Virtue's train discarded.
With tears her sisters speak their pain.
Time flies, and still they weep; for never
The fugitive can time restore;
An Hour once fled, has fled for ever,
And all the rest shall smile no more!