Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/How Old art Thou?

How Old Art Thou?

Count not the days that have idly flown,  The years that were vainly spent;Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to ownWhen thy spirit stands before the throne  To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin,  The moments employed for heaven;Oh, few and evil thy days have been,Thy life a toilsome but worthless scene,  For a nobler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial-plate?  Will thy sun stand still on his way?Both hasten on: and thy spirit's fateBests on the point of life's little date;  Then live while 'tis called to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the sibyl's page,  As they lessen, in value rise;Oh, rouse thee and live! nor deem man's ageStands in the length of his pilgrimage,  But in days that are truly wise.