by Miss Pardoe [Julia Pardoe].
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.1 #4 (May 1842).
Beauty went forth one summer day
To rove in Pleasure's bowers,
And much she sported on her way
Among the glowing flowers.
At length, she reach'd a myrtle shade,
And through the branches peeping,
She saw upon the roses laid,
Time!—most profoundly sleeping.
Oh! what had she with Time to do,
That silly, heedless woman!
His power to blight full well she knew;
What could they have in common?
His head was pillow'd on his wings;
For he had furl'd his pinions,
To linger with the lovely things
In Pleasure's bright dominions:
His scythe and glass aside were cast—
"How softly he reposes!"
Cried Beauty, as she idly pass'd,
And cover'd him with roses.
Oh! what had she with Time to do,
That silly, heedless woman!
His power to blight full well she knew;
What could they have in common?
Time woke. "Away!" he kindly said;
"Go trifle with the Graces;
You know that I was never made
To toy with pretty faces.
'Tis pleasant in so sweet a clime
To rest awhile from duty;
I'll sleep a little more," said Time;
"No; do wake up," said Beauty.
Oh! what had she with Time to do,
That silly, heedless woman!
His power to blight full well she knew;
What could they have in common?
He rose—but he was grim and old;
She felt her roses wither;
His scythe upon her heart was cold;
His hour-glass made her shiver.
Her young cheeks shrank, her hair turn'd gray,
Of grace he had bereft her;
And when he saw her charms decay,
He spread his wings, and left her.
And thus I point my simple rhyme,
It is the minstrel's duty;
Beauty should never sport with Time—
Time always withers Beauty.