Count not the days that have idly flown,
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
When thy spirit stands before the throne
To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for heaven;
Oh, few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial plate?
Will thy sun stand still on his way?
Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date,
Then live while 'tis called to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;
Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that man's age
Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage,
But in days that are truly wise.