Classic Poem

Ye gladsome bells, how misapplied your peal!
A day, like this, requires a solemn chime:
Infatuate mortals! why, with sportive heel,
Dance ye exulting o'er the grave of Time?

Is he your foe, that thus ye ring his knell?
That festive notes announce his awful flight?
Tire ye of day, that sounds of triumph tell,
How swift the wing that wafts your last, long night?

While circling years o'er thoughtless myriads roll,
Long folly but to lend, and length of shame,
Ye metal tongues, swing slow with mournful toll,
Virtue's departed seasons to proclaim!

Sons of Delay! whose duties, yet undone,
Await, from year to year, your hand in vain,
Drown, drown that brazen music with a groan!
The years ye lost shall ne'er be yours again!