The more we live, more brief appear Our lifc'a succeeding stage; A day to childhood acema a year, And years like passing ages. The gladsome eurrent oL our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Seems lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy bordera. But the oareworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thioker, Ye stars, that measnre hfe to man, Why seem yonr conrees qnicker ? When joys have lost their bloom and breath And life itself is vapid, Why, as we near the Falla of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid? It may be strane, yet who would change Time's course to Blower speeding, When one by one our f rienda are gone And left our bosoms bleeding? Heaven gives uur years of fading strength Indetnnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length Pninnrtionea to their üweetness.