On every thing are traced decay and change. Look! how the shifting seasons slip away.
Go and walk with Nature; thou wilt find Full many a gem in her enchanted cup.
E'en Beauty mourns in her decaying bower,
That Time upon her angel brow should set
His crooked autograph, and mar the jet
Of glossy locks. Lo! how her chaplet green,
The hoar frost and the canker worm destroy.
Decay's dull film obscures those matchless eyes.
Time's flying wheel leaves little trace behind.
The rich pearl of life, Soon moulders in its blackened urn, the tomb.
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