Then laughs the childish year, with flowerets crowned, And lavishly perfumes the fields around; But no substantial nourishment receives, Infirm the stalks, unsolid are the leaves. Proceeding onward whence the year began, The Summer grows adult, and ripens into man. This season, as in men, is most replete With kindly moisture, and prolific heat. Autumn succeeds, a sober tepid age, Not froze with fear, nor boiling into rage; More than mature, and tending to decay, When our brown locks repine to mix with odious grey. Last, Winter creeps along with tardy pace; Sour is his front, and furrowed is his face. His scalp if not dishonoured quite of hair, The ragged fleece is thin, and thin is worse than bare. Even our own bodies daily change receive; Some part of what was theirs before they leave, Nor are to-day what yesterday they were; Nor the whole same to-morrow will appear. Time was, when we were sowed, and just began, From some few fruitful drops, the promise of a man; Then Nature's hand (fermented as it was) Moulded to shape the soft, coagulated mass; And when the little man was fully formed, The breathless embryo with a spirit warmed; But when the mother's throes begin to come, The creature, pent within the narrow room, Breaks his blind prison, pushing to repair His stifled breath, and draw the living air; Cast on the margin of the world he lies, A helpless babe, but by instinct he cries. He next essays to walk, but, downward pressed, On four feet imitates his brother beast: By slow degrees he gathers from the ground His legs, and to the rolling chair is bound; Then walks alone: a horseman now become, He rides a stick, and travels round the room: In time he vaunts among his youthful peers, Strong-boned, and strung with nerves, in pride of years: He runs with mettle his first merry stage, } Maintains the next, abated of his rage, } But manages his strength, and spares his age. } Heavy the third, and stiff, he sinks apace, And, though 'tis down-hill all, but creeps along the race. Now sapless on the verge of death he stands, Contemplating his former feet, and hands; And, Milo-like, his slackened sinews sees, } And withered arms, once fit to cope with Hercules, } Unable now to shake, much less to tear, the trees. } So Helen wept, when her too faithful glass Reflected to her eyes the ruins of her face; Wondering what charms her ravishers could spy, To force her twice, or even but once enjoy! Thy teeth, devouring time, thine, envious age, On things below still exercise your rage; With venomed grinders you corrupt your meat, And then, at lingering meals, the morsels eat. Nor those, which elements we call, abide,