Still is the toiling hand of Care; Yet, hark, how through the peopled air The insect-youth are on the wing, To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly, 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, |