As on a rock of adamant, we build
Our mountain hopes, fpin out eternal fchemes,
As we the Fatal Sifters could outspin,
And, big with life's futurities, expire.
Not e'en Philander had bespoke his shroud;
Nor had he caufe; a warning was deny'd.
How many fall as fudden, not as fafe!
As fudden, though for years admonish'd home.
Of human ills the laft extreme beware;
Beware, Lorenzo, a flow fudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate furprise !
Be wife to-day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead :
Thus on, 'till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procraftination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not fo frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis fo frequent, this is ftranger ftill.
Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day fhall not drivel, and their pride
On this reverfion takes up ready praise ;
At least their own; their future felves applaud.
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd in Fate's to Wisdom they confign;,
The thing they can't but purpose they poftpone.
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,
And fcarce in human wifdom to do more.
All promife is poor dilatory man,
And that thro' ev'ry ftage. When young, indeed,
In full content we fometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourfelves, and only with,
As duteous fons, our fathers were more wife.
At thirty man fufpe&ts himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
C
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpofe to refolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Refolves, and re-refolves; then dies the fame.
And why? because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal but themselves;
Themselves, when fome alarming shock of fate
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the fudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon clofe; where past the shaft no trace is found.
As from the wing no fcar the fky retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
E'en with the tender tear which Nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.
Can I forget Philander? that were ftrange!
O my full heart!-But fhould I give it vent,
The longest night, tho' longer far, would fail,
And the lark liften to my midnight fong.
The fprightly lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn;
Grief's fharpeft thorn hard preffing on my breast,
I ftrive, with wakeful melody, to cheer
The fullen gloom, fweet Philomel! like thee,
And call the stars to liften: ev'ry star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.
Yet be not vain; there are who thine excel,
And charm thro' diftant ages. Wrapt in fhade, 445
Pris'ner of darknefs I to the filent hours
How often I repeat their rage divine,
To lull my griefs, and fteal my heart from woe!
I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire.
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee. Ah, could I reach your strain !
Or his who made Mæonides our own.
Man, too, he fung: immortal man I fing:
Oft burfts my fong beyond the bounds of life:
What now but immortality can please?
O had he prefs'd his theme, purfu'd the track
Which opens out of darkness into day!
O had he mounted on his wing of fire,
Soar'd where I fink, and fung immortal man,
How had it blest, mankind and rescu'd me!
ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.
RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.
7HEN the cock crew he wept,"-fmote by that eye
Which looks on me, on all; that pow'r who bids
This midnight sentinel, with clarion shrill,
Emblem of that which shall awake the dead,
Roufe fouls from flumber into thoughts of heaven.
Shall I too weep? where then is fortitude ?
And, fortitude abandon'd, where is man?
I know the terms on which he fees the light:
He that is born is lifted: life is war;
Eternal war with woe: who bears it beft
Deferves it least.-On other themes I'll dwell.
Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee
And thine; on themes may profit; profit there
Where most they need. Themes, too,the genuine growth
Of dear Philander's duft. He thus, tho' dead,
15
May ftill befriend.-What themes? Time's wondrous
Death, friendship, and Philander's final fcene. [price,
So could I touch thefe themes as might obtain
Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite difengag'd,
The good deed would delight me; half imprefs
On my dark cloud an Iris, and from grief
Call glory.-Doft thou mourn Philander's fate?
I know thou fay'ft it: fays thy life the fame?
He mourns the dead, who lives as they defire.
Where is that thirst, that avarice of time,
(O glorious avarice!) thought of death infpires,
As rumour'd robberies endear our gold?
O Time! than gold more facred; more a load
Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wife.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are fquander'd, wildom's debt unpaid?
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.
Hafte, hafte, he lies in wait, he's at the door.
Infidious Death! fhould his ftrong hand arrest,
No compofition fets the pris'ner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain
Faft binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear.
How late I fhudder'd on the brink! how late
Life call'd for her last refuge in despair!
That time is mine, O Mead! to thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with eternity.
But ill my genius anfwers my defire:
My fickly fong is mortal, paft thy cure.
Accept the will;--that dies not with my ftrain.
For what calls thy difeafe, Lorenzo? not
For Eiculapian, but for moral aid.
Thou think 'ft it folly to be wife too foon.
Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor;
Part with it as with money, fparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth;
And what its worth afk deathbeds; they can tell.
Part with it, as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come;
Time higher aim'd, ftill nearer the great mark
Of men and angels, virtue more divine.
Is this our duty, wifdom, glory, gain?
(These heaven benign in vital union binds)
And fport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal funs infpire? Amusement reigns,
Man's great demand: to trifle is to live:
And is it then a trifle, too, to die?
Thou fay'ft I preach, Lorenzo! 'tis confelt.
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amufement in the flame of battle?
Is it not treafon in the foul immortal,
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize?
Will toys amufe when med'cines cannot cure?
When fpirits ebb, when life's enchanting fcenes
Their luftre lofe, and leffen in our fight,
As lands, and cities with their glitt'ring fpires,
To the poor fhatter'd bark, by fudden storm
Thrown off to fea, and foon to perish there;
Will toys amufe? No; thrones will then be toys,
And earth and skies feem duft upon the fcale.
Redeem we time?-Its lofs we dearly buy,
What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd sports?
He pleads time's num'rous blanks: he loudly pleads
The ftraw like trifles on life's common ftream.
From whom those blanks and trifles but from thee?
No blank, no trifle, Nature made, or meant.
Virtue, or purpos'd virtue, ftill be thine;
This cancels thy complaint at once; this leaves
In act no trifle, and no blank in time.
This greatens, fills, immortalizes all;
This, the bleft art of turning all to gold;
This the good heart's prerogative to raise
A royal tribute from the pooreft hours;
Immenfe revenue! ev'ry moment pays,
If nothing more than purpofe in thy pow'r,
Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed.
Who does the best his circumstance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint:
'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer, [heaven. Guard well thy thought: our thoughts are heard in On all important time, thro' ev'ry age,
Tho' much, and warm, the wise have urg'd, the man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour.
"I've loft a day,"-the prince who nobly cry'd,
Had been an emperor without his crown.
Of Rome? fay, rather, lord of human race:
He spoke as if deputed by mankind.
So fhould all fpeak: fo reafon fpeaks in all:
From the foft whispers of that God in man,
Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly,
For refcue from the bleffings we poffefs?
Time the fupreme !-Time is eternity;
Pregnant with all eternity can give ;
Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile.
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