Mark the golden grains that pass
Brightly thro’ this channell’d glass,
Measuring by their ceaseless fall
Heaven’s most precious gift to all!
Busy, till its sand be done,
See the shining current run;
But, th’ allotted numbers shed,
Another hour of life hath fled!
Its task perform’d, its travail past,
Like mortal man it rests at last!--
Yet let some hand invert its frame
And all its powers return the same,
Whilst any golden grains remain
’Twill work its little hour again.--
But who shall turn the glass for man,
When all his golden grains have ran?
Who shall collect his scatter’d sand,
Dispers’d by time’s unsparing hand?--
Never can one grain be found,
Howe’er we anxious search around!
Then, daughters, since this truth is plain,
That Time once gone ne’er comes again.
Improv’d bid every moment pass--
See how the sand rolls down your glass.
_Nov._ 2. 1810.