COMMERCE.
89
What though he linger, with a wistful eye,
Upon the dial as the sun mounts high;
Impatient hoy! the man will soon complain,
Too swift the moments for his hours of gain;
Too fleetly pass the sands of life away,
And death may claim him as a miser, gray.
Upon the dial as the sun mounts high;
Impatient hoy! the man will soon complain,
Too swift the moments for his hours of gain;
Too fleetly pass the sands of life away,
And death may claim him as a miser, gray.
Panting with joy to leave his native vale,
He leaps unarmed where scarce a veteran's mail
Would shield from sin in all its cunning forms,
Or keep secure where vice in legions swarms;
Yet leaves he not his peaceful home unwarned,
Though many an earnest prayer perchance is scorned.
He leaps unarmed where scarce a veteran's mail
Would shield from sin in all its cunning forms,
Or keep secure where vice in legions swarms;
Yet leaves he not his peaceful home unwarned,
Though many an earnest prayer perchance is scorned.
In fashion now, our hero strives to reign,
Sports the last hat, the latest Paris cane;
Hangs out long clusters of superfluous hair,
And apes Lord Byron with his throat all bare;
Makes one, perhaps, of that queer tribe of men,
Who play, in dress, part fool, part Saracen.
Sports the last hat, the latest Paris cane;
Hangs out long clusters of superfluous hair,
And apes Lord Byron with his throat all bare;
Makes one, perhaps, of that queer tribe of men,
Who play, in dress, part fool, part Saracen.
