 | Poems |  |
66
[With rapid wing our fairest years move on]
With rapid wing our fairest years move on:
I sigh, my Myra, as again I sing—
Our fairest years move on with rapid wing,
Till all the loveliness of life is gone.
I sigh, my Myra, as again I sing—
Our fairest years move on with rapid wing,
Till all the loveliness of life is gone.
Few are our joys, and fleeting; ere they fly,
Seize their brief grace! Not distant is the date
(Trust me, dear maid) when even thy bloom shall die,
Or scathed by chance, or chased by hurrying fate:
Seize their brief grace! Not distant is the date
(Trust me, dear maid) when even thy bloom shall die,
Or scathed by chance, or chased by hurrying fate:
Too soon that “eye's blue languish” will expire;
And mute too soon will sleep that tuneful tongue,
On whose soft sounds entranced attention hung,
As with its melody it shamed the lyre.
And mute too soon will sleep that tuneful tongue,
On whose soft sounds entranced attention hung,
As with its melody it shamed the lyre.
Then, ah! my Myra, ere those charms decay,
Give them to love: Even now they haste away!
Give them to love: Even now they haste away!
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