Which a rude storm ere noon did shroud,
And buried all its early glories in a cloud.
The day in funeral blackness mourned,
And all to sighs, and all to tears it turned.
4
Or fate blaspheme?
We should thy full ripe virtues wrong,
To think thee young.
Fate, when she did thy vigorous growth behold.
And all thy forward glories told,
Forgot thy tale of years, and thought thee old.
The brisk endowments of thy mind,
Scorning in the bud to be confined.
Out-ran thy age, and left slow time behind;
Which made thee reach maturity so soon,
And, at first dawn, present a full spread noon.
So thy perfections with thy soul agree,
Both knew no non-age, knew no infancy.
Thus the first pattern of our race began
His life in middle-age, at 's birth a perfect man.
5
As calls at once for wonder and for praise.
Thy prudent conduct had so learnt to measure
The different whiles of toil and leisure,
No time did action want, no action wanted pleasure.
Thy busy industry could time dilate,
And stretch the thread of fate:
Thy careful thrift could only boast the power
To lengthen minutes, and extend an hour.
No single sand could e'er slip by
Without its wonder, sweet as high:
And every teeming moment still brought forth
A thousand rarities of worth.
While some no other cause for life can give,
But a dull habitude to live:
