No more let youth its beauty boast,
S——n at thirty reigns a toast,
And like the sun as he declines,
More mildly but more sweetly shines.

The hand of Time alone disarms
Her face of its superfl'ous charms,
But adds for every grace resign'd
A thousand to adorn her mind.

Youth was her too inflaming time,
This her more habitable clime;
How must she then each heart engage
Who blooms like Youth, is wife like Age!

Thus the rich orange-trees produce
At once both ornament and use;
Here opening blossoms we behold,
There fragrant orbs of ripen'd gold.