To Chloe, written on the Author's Birth Day

The minutes, the hours, the days, and the years, That fill up the current of Time, Neither flowing with hopes, neither ebbing with fears, Unheeded roll'd on to my prime.

In infancy prattling, in youth full of play, Still pleas'd with whatever was new: I bad the old cripple fly swifter away, To o'ertake some gay trifle in view.

But when Chloe with sweetness and sense in her look, First taught me the lesson of love; Then I counted each step the wing'd fugitive took, And bade him more leisurely move.

Stop, runaway, stop, nor thy journey pursue, For Chloe has gi'en me her heart; To enjoy it thy years will prove many two few, If you make so much haste to depart.

Still, still he flies on—still, still let him flee, He never can cancel my joy: That conquest, O Death, is reserved for thee, But Time cannot change, or destroy.