The Flight of Time

And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.
Faintly flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away;
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Down to ocean gliding ever,
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
Keep thy calm unruffled way:
And see the mist of mantling blue
Time with such a silent motion,
Float round the distant mountain's side.
Floats along, on wings of air,
To eternity's dark ocean,
At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
Burying all its treasures there.
A sheet of silver spreads below,
Roses bloom, and then they wither;
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Cheeks are bright, then fade and die;
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.
Shapes of light are wafted hither —
Then, like visions hurry by:
On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
Quick as clouds at evening driven
O! I could ever sweep the oar,
O'er the many-colour'd west,
When early birds at morning wake,
Years are bearing us to heaven,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.
Home of happiness and rest.