VII.

    How strong a hand hath Time！ Man rears, And names his work immortal； years Go by. Behold！ where dwelt his pride, Stern Desolation's brood abide； The owl within his bower sits, The lone bat through his chamber flits； Where bounded by the buoyant throng, With measured step, and choral song, The wily serpent winds along； While the Destroyer stalketh by, And smiles, as if in mockery. How strong a band hath Time！ Love weaves His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves, （Methinks his fittest crown would be A chaplet from the cypress tree；） With hope his breast is swelling high, And brightly beams his laughing eye； But soon his

    hopes are mixed with fears, And soon his smiles are quenched in tears： Then Disappointment's blighting breath Breathes o'er him, and he droops to death； While the Destroyer glideth by, And smiles, as if in mockery. How strong a hand hath Time！ Fame wins The eager youth to her embrace； With tameless ardour he begins, And follows up the bootless race； Ah！ bootless——for, as on he hies, With equal speed the phantom flies, Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone, He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown； While the Destroyer passeth by, And smiles, as if in mockery. Gaze, stranger, on the scene below； 'Tis scarce a century ago, Since here abode another race, The men of tomahawk and bow, The savage sons of war and chase； Yet where, ah！ where, abide they now？

    Go search, and see if thou canst find, One trace which they have left behind, A single mound, or mossy grave, That holds the ashes of the brave；

    A single lettered stone to say That they have lived, and passed away. Men soon will cease to name their name, Oblivion soon will quench their fame, And the wild story of their fate, Will yet be subject of debate, 'Twixt antiquarians sage and able, Who doubt if it be truth or fable.