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Ill
Right onward, with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour.
Till Nature's race be run,
And Time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun.
Nor only o'er the Dial's face.
This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace.
Steals moments, months, and years away ; From hoary rock and aged tree.
From proud PalmjTa's mouldering walls. From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea.
From every blade of grass it falls ; For still, where'er a shadow sweeps.
The scythe of Time destroys, And man at every footstep weeps
O'er evanescent joys ; Life's flowerets glittering with the dews of morn, Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn :
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