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Think, amidst you falling glory 46 Autumn tells a winter nigh.

Griping misers, nightly waking, See the end of all your care, Fled on wings of our own making, We have left our owners bare.

Sons of honor, fed on praises, Fluttering high in fancied worth, Lo! the fickle air that raises, Brings us down to parent earth. Learned Sophs, in systems jaded. Who for new ones daily call, Cease at length, by us persuaded, Every leaf must have a fall. Yearly, in our course returning, Messengers of shortest stay, We repeat the solemn warning, Heaven and earth will pass away, On the tree of life eternal, Moses, let all thy hopes be staid, Which alone forever vernal, Bears those leaves that never fade.