Richard Graves

Under an Hour-Glass, in a Grotto near the Water at Claverton

THIS bubbling stream not uninstructive flows,
Nor idly loiters to its destin'd main,
Each flower it feeds that on its margin grows,
And bids thee blush, whose days are spent in vain.

Nor void of moral, tho' unheeded, glides
Time's current stealing on with silent haste;
For lo! each falling sand his folly chides,
Who lets one precious moment run to waste.