Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/190

 Of Beauty's short-livde houre— And Glory's dark eclipse!

Or, wouldst thou rather chuse This World's leaf to peruse, Beneath some dripping vault That scornes rude Time's assaulte; Whose close-ribbed arches still Frown in their green old age, And stamp an awfull chill Upon that pregnant page?

Yes, thither let us turne, To this Time-shattered urne, And quaintly carved stone— (Dim wrackes of ages gone;) Here on this mouldering tomb We'll con that noblest truth, The Flesh and Spirit's doome— Dust and Immortall Youthe.