The Mother's Throws on all of Woman born,
Not more the Children, than fure Heirs of Pain.
War, Famine, Peft, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,
Inteftine Broils, Oppreffion, with her Heart
Wrapt up in triple Brass, befiege Mankind.
God's Image difinherited of Day,
Here, plung'd in Mines, forgets a Sun was made.
There, Beings deathlefs as their haughty Lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling Oar for Life;
And plough the Winter's Wave, and reap Despair.
Some, for hard Masters, broken under Arms,
In Battle lopt away, with half their Limbs,
Beg bitter Bread thro' Realms their Valour fav'd,
If fo the Tyrant, or his Minion, doom.
Want, and incurable Difeafe, (fell Pair!)
On hopeless Multitudes remorfelefs feize
At once; and make a Refuge of the Grave.
How groaning Hofpitals eject their Dead !
What Numbers groan for fad Admission there!
What Numbers, once in Fortune's Lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold Hand of Charity!
To shock us more, folicit it in vain !
Ye filken Sons of Pleasure! fince in Pains
You rue more modish Vifits, vifit here,
And breathe from your Debauch: Give, and reduce
Surfeit's Dominion o'er you: but fo great
Your Impudence, you blush at what is Right!
Happy! did Sorrow feize on such alone.
Not Prudence can defend, or Virtue fave ;.
Disease invades the chafteft Temperance;
And Punishment the Guiltless; and Alarm
Thro' thickest Shades, purfues the fond of Peace.
Man's Caution often into Danger turns,
And his Guard falling, crushes him to Death.
Not Happiness itself makes good her Name;
Our
very Wishes give us not our Wish.
How diftant oft the Thing we doat on most,
From that for which we doat, Felicity?
The Smootheft Courfe of Nature has its Pains;
And trueft Friends, thro' Error, wound our Reft.
Without Misfortune, what Calamities?
And what Hoftilities, without a Foe?
Nor are Foes wanting to the best on Earth.
But endless is the Lift of human Ills,
And Sighs might fooner fail, than Caufe to figh
A Part how fmall of the terraqueous Globe Is tenanted by Man! the Reft a Waste, Rocks, Defarts, frozen Seas, and burning Sands: Wild Haunts of Monsters, Poifons, Stings, and Death Such is Earth's melancholy Map! But, far More fad! this Earth is a true Map of Man. So bounded are its haughty Lord's Delights To Woe's wide Empire; where deep Troubles tofs, Loud Sorrows howl, invenom'd Paffions bite, Rav'nous Calamities our Vitals feize,
And threat'ning Fate, wide opens to devour.
What then am I, who forrow for myself?
In Age, in Infancy, from others Aid
Is all our Hope; to teach us to be kind.
That, Nature's firft, laft Leffon to Mankind;
The felfish Heart deferves the Pain it feels.
More gen'rous Sorrow, while it finks, exalts;
And confcious Virtue mitigates the Pang.
Nor Virtue, more than Prudence, bids me give
Swoln Thought a Second Chanel; who divide,
They weaken too, the Torrent of their Grief.
Take then, O World! thy much-indebted Tear;
How fad a Sight is human Happiness,
To those whofe Thought can pierce beyond an Hour!
O thou! whate'er thou art, whofe Heart exults!
Wouldst thou I fhould congratulate thy Fate?
I know thou wouldft; thy Pride demands it from me.
Let thy Pride pardon, what thy Nature needs,
The falutary Cenfure of a Friend.
Thou happy Wretch ! by Blindness art thou bleft;
By Dotage dandled to perpetual Smiles.
B 6
Know, Smiler! at thy Peril art thou pleas'd;
Thy Pleasure is the Promife of thy Pain.
Mi fortune, like a Creditor fevere,
But rifes in Demand for her Delay;
She makes a Scourge of paft Profperity,
To fting thee more, and double thy Distress.
LORENZO, Fortune makes her Court to thee,
Thy fond Heart dances, while the Syren fings.
Dear is thy Welfare; think me not unkind;
I would not damp, but to fecure thy Joys.
Think not that Fear is facred to the Storm.
Stand on thy Guard against the Smiles of Fate.
Is Heav'n tremendous in its Frowns? Moft fure
And in its Favours formidable too;
Its Favours here are Trials, not Rewards ;
A Call to Duty, not Discharge from Care;
And fhould alarm us, full as much as Woes;
Awake us to their Caufe, and Confequence ;;
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our Defert;
Awe Nature's Tumult, and chastise her Joys,
Left while we clafp, we kill them; nay, invert
To worse than fimple Mifery, their Charms.
Revolted Joys, like Foes in civil War,
Like bofom Friendships to Refentment four'd,
With Rage invenom'd rise against our Peace.
Beware what Earth calls Happiness; beware
All Joys, but Joys that never can expire.
Who builds on lefs than an immortal Base,
Fond as he feems, condemns his Joys to Death.
Mine dy'd with thee, PHILANDER! thy laft Sigh
Diffolv'd the Charm; the difinchanted Earth
Loft all her Luftre. Where, her glitt'ring Towers?
Her golden Mountains, where? all darken'd down
To naked Wafte; a dreary Vale of Tears;
The great Magician's dead! Thou poor, pale Piece
Of out-caft Earth, in Darknefs! what a Change
From Yefterday! Thy darling Hope fo near,
Long-labour'd Prize!) O how Ambition flush'd
Thy glowing Cheek! Ambition truly great,
Of virtuous Praise. Death's fubtle Seed within,
(Sly, treach'rous Miner !) working in the Dark,
Smil'd at thy well-concerted Scheme, and beckon'd
The Worm to riot on that Rose so red,
Unfaded ere it fell; one Moment's Prey!
Man's Forefight is conditionally wife;
LORENZO! Wisdom into Folly turns
Oft, the firft Inftant, its Idea fair
To labouring Thought is born. How dim our Eye! The prefent Moment terminates our Sight;
Clouds, thick as thofe on Doomsday, drown the next i We penetrate, we prophefy in vain.
Time is dealt out by Particles; and each,
Ere mingled with the ftreaming Sands of Life,
By Fate's inviolable Oath is fworn
Deep Silence," Where Eternity begins."
By Nature's Law, what may be, may
There's no Prerogative in human Hours.
In human Hearts what bolder Thought can rife,
Than Man's Prefumption on To-morrow's Dawn?
Where is To-morrow? In another World.
For Numbers this is certain; the Reverse
Is fure to none; and yet on this Perhaps,
This Peradventure, infamous for Lyes,
As on a Rock of Adamant we build
Our mountain Hopes; fpin out eternal Schemes,
As we the Fatal Sifters could out-fpin,
And, big with Life's Futurities, expire.
Not ev'n PHILANDER had bespoke his Shroud.
Nor had He Caufe, a Warning was deny'd;
How Many fall as fudden, not as fafe!
As fudden, tho' for Years admonisht home.
Of human Ills the laft Extreme beware,
Beware, LORENZO! a flow-fudden Death.
How dreadful that deliberate Surprize!
Be wife To day; 'tis Madness to defer;
Next Day the fatal Precedent will plead;
Thus on, till Wisdom is pufh'd out of Life.
Procraftination is the Thief of Time;
Year after Year it fteals, till all are fled,
And to the Mercies of a Moment leaves
The vaft 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 Selves applauds ;
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 Wifdom they confign;
The Thing they can't but purpose, they postpone ;
"Tis not in Folly, not to fcorn a Fool;
And fcarce in human Wisdom to do more.
All Promife is poor dilatory Man,
And that thro' ev'ry Stage: When young, indeed,
In full Content we, fometimes, nobly rest,
Un-anxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous Sons, our Fathers were more Wife.
At Thirty Man fufpects himfelf a Fool;
Knows it at Forty, and reforms his Plan;
At Fifty chides his infamous Delay,
Pushes his prudent Purpose to Refolve;
In all the Magnanimity of Thought
Refolves; and re-resolves; 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 paft the Shaft, no Trace is found.
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