To the D—— of Q—Y

When beauteous Q—y reach'd her fiftieth year, A period fatal to the blooming fair! Time snatch'd his hostile scythe, intent to mow The native flow'rs that grace her lovely brow: Vain thought! the scythe drop'd harmless from his hand, His hour glass falling, lost the imprison'd sand; His agitated breast confess'd alarms, And the world's victor stood subdu'd with charms. At length withdrawing he revers'd the doom, And bad her features wear unfading bloom.