Classic Poem

The hour has struck its advent and farewell,
And hark! another hour begins to beat!
As when a crier stops, and rings his bell
To tell a loss, then on with busy feet
To raise the cry elsewhere; our flying hours
We waste, and baulk them of their noblest use;
And so disable our best gifts and powers,
Or leave them open to the fiend's abuse;
Or should I—the same moral to convey—
A more derisive apologue subjoin,
My clock's a mocking thief, who steals my coin,
Then, counting up the sum, as if to say,
‘How many precious pieces I purloin,
One, two, three, four,’—trips daintily away.