Sonnet VIII. Translation.

A poem by Anna Seward

Short is the time the oldest Being lives,
Nor has Longevity one hour to waste;
Life's duties are proportion'd to the haste
With which it fleets away; - each day receives
Its task, that if neglected, surely gives
The morrow double toil. - Ye, who have pass'd
In idle sport the days that fled so fast,
Days, that nor Grief recalls, nor Care retrieves,
At length be wise, and think, that of the part
Remaining in that vital period given,
How short the date, and at the prospect start,
Ere to the extremest verge your steps be driv'n!
Nor let a moment unimprov'd depart,
But view it as the latest trust of Heav'n!