Ode on Time

O’er him, by health and fortune crown’d,
Time steals with step so light,
Scarce are his faint impressions found
On the gay forehead’s open round,
Or shining orb of sight.

Smooth as the young Camilla borne,
With printless step and fleet,
O’er plenteous fields of ripen’d corn,
Whose bending stalks the gales of morn
Bow on the passing feet.

But o’er the dim form, press’d by woes,
He treads with heavy pace,
Sweeps his broad scythe, and, as he goes,
Down falls the summer pride, and shows
Worn Nature’s furrow’d face.