Classic Poem

Rouse thee, old Time, thy folded pinions shake,
 Nor let them useless o'er thy shoulders lye;
Oh! 'tis fond love, impatient, bids thee wake,—
 That bids thee throw each vile encumbrance by.

Thy pond'rous scythe o'er roots of ripen'd grass,
 With nervous arm let yonder rustic sweep,
And break, in pity break thy uncouth glass,
 Through which the heavy sands so slowly creep.

Sluggard, arise! light borne on rapid wing,
 O! glide unwearied thro' the ambient air!
Haste, swiftly haste, th' extatic moment bring,
 That gives me all my raptur'd soul holds dear.

Then, hoary time, while I'm supremely blest,
Secure beneath thy plumy umbrage rest .