Onward ever time is passing;
Forward still it hies;
By the way delaying never,
In constant speed it flies.
By days and years we number make,
And lay out every stage;
While change in many a form appears,
To mark each passing age.

But, mid the changing scenes of time,
Thy pale head still appears,
To shew that, in her beauty clad,
Loved Spring's sweet presence nears.
With soothing balms she comes supplied,
Prepared to bestow
Them freely on each troubled head;
For freely do they flow.

But thou, the first of all her band,
The fairest of her gems,
We hail thee as a welcome guest,
Which Winter still contemns.
For thou art still the harbinger
(A credit to her choice)
To tell that pleasant times draw nigh,
For which let all rejoice.

What artist's pencil e'er could trace,
Or painter's brush apply
On canvas, such a perfect form
As thy frail leaves supply?
They are more pure than running brook,
And whiter than the snow--
The winter garment of the ground,
Which soon will beauty shew.

No giddy grandeur vesteth thee;
No fitless fashions flow;
Thy mien retains a modest air,
Whence hidden graces shew.
From this might many a maiden fair
A lesson good receive:--
That gay appearance fades away,
And tends but to deceive.