Classic Poem

Ah ! whither bright Phaebus so fast?
Why post it so quickly away?
To what distant climate such haste,
Great source and sole regent of day?

The flow'rets — — not one now remains,
For gone is their life beaming god;
Save daises, a few, on the plains,
That languish and droop on the clod.

Dear violets, your loss I bemoan!
But, destin'd by fate was your doom;
My pinks, but for this were you blown,
And PHILLIS was fond of your bloom.

Dispoil'd are the jessmines of green,
Their fragrance the woodbines have lost
A rose bud — not one to be seen,
Enchain'd lies the riv'let by frost.

The blackbird's mellifluous notes,
No more from the thickets resound;
No linnets distend their sweet throats,
No songster of joy to be found.

All, all seem in sadness to mourn,
Distorted and ransack'd the year;
But Phaebus in sooth will return,
And joy to illumine the sphere.

So man (for his date is no more)
Just passes, we sorrow a while;
The year of his life but is o'er,
And mirth gives the pleasure-form'd smile.