Behold how thievish Time has been! 
Full eighteen summers you have seen,
      And yet they seem a day? 
Whole years, collected in Time’s glass,
In silent lapse how soon they pass,
      And steal your life away!

The flying hour none can arrest,
Nor yet recall one moment past,
      And what more dread must seem
Is, that to-morrow’s not your own—­
Then haste! and ere your life has flown
      The subtle hours redeem.

Attend with care to what I sing: 
Know time is ever on the wing;
      None can its flight detain;
Then, like a pilgrim passing by,
Take home this hint, as time does fly,
      “All earthly things are vain.”

Let nothing here elate your breast,
Nor, for one moment, break your rest,
      In heavenly wisdom grow: 
Still keep your anchor fixed above,
Where Jesus reigns in boundless love,
      And streams of pleasure flow.

So shall your life glide smoothly by
Without a tear, without a sigh,
      And purest joys will crown
Each birthday, as the year revolves,
Till this clay tenement dissolves,
      And leaves the soul unbound.

Then shall you land on Canaan’s shore,
Where time and chance shall be no more,
      And joy eternal reigns;
There, mixing with the seraphs bright,
And dressed in robes of heavenly light,
      You’ll raise angelic strains.

THE IRISH CABIN.

Should poverty, modest and clean,
   E’er please, when presented to view,
Should cabin on brown heath, or green,
   Disclose aught engaging to you,
Should Erin’s wild harp soothe the ear
   When touched by such fingers as mine,
Then kindly attentive draw near,
   And candidly ponder each line.

One day, when December’s keen breath
   Arrested the sweet running rill,
And Nature seemed frozen in death,
   I thoughtfully strolled o’er the hill: 
The mustering clouds wore a frown,
   The mountains were covered with snow,
And Winter his mantle of brown
   Had spread o’er the landscape below.

Thick rattling the footsteps were heard
   Of peasants far down in the vale;
From lakes, bogs, and marshes debarred,
   The wild-fowl, aloft on the gale,
Loud gabbling and screaming were borne,
   Whilst thundering guns hailed the day,
And hares sought the thicket forlorn,
   Or, wounded, ran over the way.

No music was heard in the grove,
   The blackbird and linnet and thrush,
And goldfinch and sweet cooing dove,
   Sat pensively mute in the bush: 
The leaves that once wove a green shade
   Lay withered in heaps on the ground: 
Chill Winter through grove, wood, and glade
   Spread sad desolation around.

But now the keen north wind ’gan whistle,
   And gusty, swept over the sky;
Each hair, frozen, stood like a bristle,
   And night thickened fast on the eye. 
In swift-wheeling eddies the snow
   Fell, mingling and drifting amain,
And soon all distinction laid low,
   As whitening it covered the plain.