The Sorrows of Age

Age with freezing hand in vain
Chills impassion'd Love to rest;
Grief is youthful in its pain ,
There no Winter could be guess'd.

Active is the fever's breath,
Subtle foe to Life's repose;
And the ling'ring hand of Death
Will not yet the eyelids close.

Time , if you can so return ,
Strike, and speed the destin'd blow;
Give my ashes to the urn,
On my tears your mantle throw.
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