Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.

Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.