Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:

Yet, hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!

The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honeyed spring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man:

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the Busy and the Gay

But flutter through life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colors drest: Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chilled by Age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply: