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Want, and incurable Disease, (fell pair !)

Dear is thy welfare; think me not unkind; On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize

I would not damp, but to secure thy joys. At once; and make a refuge of the grave. Think not that fear is sacred to the storm : How groaning hospitals eject their dead !

Stand on thy guard against the smiles of Fate. What numbers groan for sad admission there ! Is Heaven tremendous in its frowns? Most sure; What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-fed, And in its favours formidable too : Solicit the cold hand of Charity!

Its favours here are trials, not rewards ; To shock us more, solicit it in vain!

A call to duty, not discharge from care; Ye silken sons of pleasure ! since in pains

And should alarm us, full as much as woes; You rue more modish visits, visit here,

Awake us to their cause and consequence; And breathe from your debauch : give, and reduce And make us tremble, weigh'd with our desert; Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but so great Awe Nature's tumult, and chastise her joys, Your impudence, you blush at what is right. Lest, while we clasp, we kill them; nay, invert Happy! did sorrow seize on such alone.

To worse than simple misery, their charms. Not prudence can defend, or virtue save ;

Revolted joys, like foes in civil war, Discase invades the clastest temperance;

Like bosom friendships to resentment sour'd, And punishment the guiltless; and alarm, With rage envenom'd rise against our peace. Through thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace. Beware what Earth calls happiness ; beware Man's caution often into danger turns;

All joys, but joys that never can expire. And his guard, falling, crushes him to death. Who builds on less than an immortal base, Not happiness itself makes good her name; Fond as he seems, condemns his joys to death. Our very wishes give us not our wish.

Mine died with thee, Philander ! thy last sigh How distant oft the thing we doat on most,

Dissolv'd the charm; the disenchanted Earth From that for which we doat, felicity!

Lost all her lustre. Where her glittering towers? The smoothest course of Nature has its pains ! Her golden mountains, where ? all darken'd down And truest friends, through error, wound our rest. To naked waste; a dreary vale of tears; Without misfortune, what calamities!

The great magician's dead! Thou poor, pale piece And what hostilities, without a foe!

Of out-cast earth, in darkness! what a change Nor are foes wanting to the best on Earth.

From yesterday! Thy darling hope so near, But endless is the list of human ills,

(Long-labour'd prize!) O how ambition flush'd And sighs might sooner fail, than cause to sigh. Thy glowing cheek! Ambition truly great,

A part how small of the terraqueous globe Of virtuous praise. Death's subtle seed within Is tenanted by man! the rest a waste,

(Sly, treacherous miner !) working in the dark, Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sands; Smil'd at thy well-concerted scheme, and beckon'd Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death. The worm to riot on that rose so red, Such is Earth's melancholy inap! but, far

Unfaded ere it fell; one moment's prey ! More sad! this Earth is a true map of man.

Man's foresight is conditionally wise; So bounded are its haughty lord's delights

Lorenzo! wisdom into folly turns To woe's wide empire ; where deep troubles toss, Oft, the first instant, its idea fair Loud sorrows howl, envenom'd passions bite, To labouring thought is born. How dim our eye! Ravenous calamities our vitals seize,

The present moment terminates our sight; (next; And threatening fate wide opens to devour. Clouds, thick as those on doomsday, drown the

What then am I, who sorrow for myself! We penetrate, we prophesy in vain. In age, in infancy, from others' aid

Time is dealt out by particles; and each, Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind.

Ere mingled with the streaming sands of life, Thal, Nature's first, last lesson to mankind : By Fate's inviolable oath is sworn The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels.

Deep silence, “ Where eternity begins.” More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts;

By Nature's law, what may be, may be now; And conscious virtue mitigates the pang.

There 's no prerogative in human hours. Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give In human hearts what bolder thought can rise Swoln thought a second channel ; who divide, Than mau's presumption on to-morrow's dawn? They weaken too, the torrent of their grief.

Where is to-morrow? In another world. Take then, O World! thy much indebted tear : For numbers this is certain ; the reverse How sad a sight is human happiness,

Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps, To those whose thought can pierce beyond an hour! This peradventure, infamous for lies, O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults ! As on a rock of adamant, we build Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate? (me. Our mountain hopes, spin out eternal schemes, I know thou wouldst; thy pride demands it from As we the fatal sisters could out-spin, Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needs, And, big with life's futurities, expire. The salutary censure of a friend.

Not e'en Philander had bespoke his shroud: Thou happy wretch! by blindness thou art blest ; Nor had he cause; a warning was deny'd: By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles.

How many fall as sudden, not as safe! Know, smiler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd! As sudden, though for years admonish'd home. Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.

Of human ills the last extreme beware, Misfortune, like a creditor severe,

Beware, Lorenzo! a slow sudden death. But rises in demand for her delay;

How dreadful that deliberate surprise ! She makes a scourge of past prosperity,

Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer; To sting thee more, and double thy distress. Next day the fatal precedent will plead;

Lorenzo, Fortune makes her court to thee, Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. 'Thy fond heart dances, while the Syren sings. Procrastination 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 so frequent, would not this be strange ?
That 't is so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, “ That all men are about to live,”

TO THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF WILMINGTOX. For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think

When the cock crew, he wept". smote by that epe They one day shall not drivel: and their pride

Which looks on me, on all: that power, who bids On this reversion takes up ready praise ;

This midnight sentinel, with clarion shrill, At least, their own; their future selves applaud;

Emblem of that which shall awake the dead, How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !

Rouse souls from slumber, into thoughts of Header Time lodg’d in their own hands is folly's vails;

Shall I, too, weep? Where then is fortitude? That lodg'd in fate's, to wisdom they consign;

And, fortitude abandon'd, where is man? The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone;

I know the terms on which he sees the light; 'T is not in folly, not to scorn a fool;

He that is born, is ’listed ; life is war ; And scarce in human wisdom, to do more,

Eternal war with woe. Who bears it best, All promise is poor dilatory man,

Deserves it least. - On other themes I'll dwell. And that through every stage: when young, indeed, Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee, In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest,

And thine, on themes may profit; profit there Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish,

Where most they need. Themes, too, the genuine As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.

growth At thirty man suspects himself a fool ;

Of dear Philander's dust. He thus, though dead, Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;

May still befriend - What themes ?

Time's 90s At fifty chides his infamous delay,

drous price, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;

Death, friendship, and Philander's final scene. In all the magnanimity of thought

So could I touch these themes, as might obtain Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same.

Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite disengag'd, And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.

The good deed would delight me; half impress All men think all men mortal, but themselves;

On my dark cloud an Iris; and from grief Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Call glory. - Dost thou mourn Philander's fate? Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden I know thou say'st it: Says thy life the same ? dread;

He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire. But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,

Where is that thirst, that avarice of time, Soon close; where, past the shaft, no trace is (o glorious avarice !) thought of death inspires found.

As rumour'd robberies endear our gold ? As from the wing, no scar the sky retains ;

O time! than gold more sacred; more a load The parted wave no furrow from the keel ;

Than lead, to fools; and fools reputed wise. So dies in human hearts the thoughts of death.

What moment granted man without account? E'en with the tender tear which Nature sheds What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid! O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

Our wealth in days, all due to that discharge. Can I forget Philander ? That were strange!

Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door, O my full heart! But should I give it vent,

Insidious Death! should his strong hand arrest, The longest night, though longer far, would fail, No composition sets the prisoner free. And the lark listen to my midnight song.

Eternity's inexorable chain The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn; Fast binds; and vengeance claims the full arrear. Grief 's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast,

How late I shudder'd on the brink ! how late I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer

Life call'd for her last refuge in despair ! The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel ! like thee,

That time is mine, O Mead! to thee I owe; And call the stars to listen : every star

Fain would I pay thee with eternity. Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.

But ill my genius answers my desire; Yet be not vain ; there are, who thine excel, My sickly song is mortal, past thy cure. And charm through distant ages : wrapt in shade, Accept the will ; - that dies not with my strain. Prisoner of darkness! to the silent hours,

For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo ? not
How often I repeat their rage divine,

For Esculapian, but for moral aid.
To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe! Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon.
I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire.

Youth is not rich in time, it may be poor ;
Dark, though not blind, like thee, Mæonides ! Part with it as with money, sparing ; pay
Or, Milton! thee; ah, could I reach your strain ! No moment, but in purchase of its worth;
Or his, who made Mæonides our own.

And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tel. Man too he sung : immortal man I sing ;

Part with it as with life, reluctant; big
Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life ; With holy hope of nobler time to come;
What, now,
but immortality can please ?

Time higher aim'd, still nearer the great mark O had he press'd his theme, pursued the track, Of men and angels; virtue more divine. Which opens out of darkness into day!

Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain? O had he, mounted on his wing of fire,

(These Heaven benign in vital union binds) Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man! And sport we like the natives of the bough, How had it blest mankind, and rescued me! When vernal suns inspire ? Amusement reigas

Man's great demand : to trifle, is to live :

How heavily we drag the load of life! And is it then a trifle, too, to die?

Blest leisure is our curse ; like that of Cain, Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo ! 't is confest. It makes us wander; wander Earth around What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake ? To fly that tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groan'd Who wants amusement in the fame of battle ? The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour. Is it not treason to the soul immortal,

We cry for mercy to the next amusement; Her foes in arms, eternity the prize ?

The next amusement mortgages our fields ; Will toys amuse, when medicines cannot cure? Slight inconvenience! Prisons hardly frown, When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes From hateful Time if prisons set us free. Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight,

Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief, As lands, and cities with their glittering spires, We call him cruel; years to moments shrink, To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm Ages to years. The telescope is turn’d. Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there? To man's false optics (from his folly false) Will toys amuse? No: thrones will then be toys, Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale. And seems to creep, decrepit with his age;

Redeem we time? - Its loss we dearly buy. Behold him, when past by; what then is seen, What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd sports ? But his broad pinions swifter than the winds ? He pleads time's numerous blanks ; he loudly And all mankind, in contradiction strong, pleads

Rueful, aghast! cry out on his career. The straw-like trifles on life's common stream. Leave to thy foes these errours, and these ills; From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee? To Nature just, their cause and cure explore. No blank, no trifle, Nature made, or meant. Not short Heaven's bounty, boundless our expense ; Virtue, or purpos'd virtue, still be thine ;

No niggard, Nature; men are prodigals. This cancels thy complaint at once. This leaves We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live. In act no trifle, and no blank in time.

Time wasted is existence, us'd is life, This greatens, fills, immortalizes all ;

And bare existence, man, to live ordain'd, This, the blest art of turning all to gold;

Wrings, and oppresses with enormous weight. This the good heart's prerogative to raise

And why? since Time was given for use, not waste, A royal tribute from the poorest hours;

Injoin'd to fly; with tempest, tide, and stars, Immense revenue ! every moment pays,

To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man; If nothing more than purpose in thy power; T'ime's use was doom'd a pleasure ; waste, a pain; Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed :

That man might feel his errour, if unseen : Who does the best his circumstance allows,

And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure ; Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more. Not, blundering, split on idleness for ease. Our outward act indeed admits restraint ;

Life's cares are comforts ; such by Heaven design'd; 'T is not in things o'er thought to domineer; He that has none, must make them, or be wretched. Guard well thy thought; our thoughts are heard in Cares are employments, and without employ Heaven.

The soul is on a rack; the rack of rest, On all important time, through every age, To souls most adverse; action all their joy. Though much, and warm, the wise have urg'd; the Here then, the riddle, mark'd above, unfolds ;

Then time turns torment, when man turns a fool. Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour.

We rave, we wrestle, with great Nature's plan ; I've lost a day- the prince who nobly cried We thwart the Deity; and 't is decreed, Had been an emperor without his crown;

Who thwart his will, shall contradict their own. Of Rome? Say, rather, lord of human race : Hence our unnatural quarrels with ourselves ; He spoke, as if deputed by mankind.

Our thoughts at enmity; our bosom-broil ; So should all speak : so Reason speaks in all : We push Time from us, and we wish him back : From the soft whispers of that God in man, Lavish of lustrums, and yet fond of life; Why fly to folly, why to phrenzy fly,

Life we think long, and short ; Death seek, and For rescue from the blessing we possess ?

shun: Time, the supreme ! - Time is Eternity ;

Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, Pregnant with all eternity can give ;

United jar, and yet are loth to part. Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. Oh the dark days of vanity! while here, Who murders time, he crushes in the birth

How tasteless! and how terrible, when gone! A power ethereal, only not ador’d.

Gone! they ne'er go; when past, they haunt us Ah! how unjust to Nature and himself, Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man! The spirit walks of ev'ry day deceased ; Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns. We censure Nature for a span too short;

Nor death, nor life delight us. That span too short, we tax as tedious too ; And time possest, both pain us, what can please? Torture invention, all expedients tire,

That which the Deity to please ordain'd, To lash the lingering moments into speed,

Time us'd. The man who consecrates his hours And whirl us (happy riddance !) from ourselves By vigorous effort, and an honest aim, Art, brainless Art ! our furious charioteer

At once he draws the sting of life and death ; (For Nature's voice unstiled would recall) He walks with Nature; and her paths are peace. Drives headlong towards the precipice of death; Our errour's cause and cure are seen: see next Death, most our dread; death thus more dreadful Time's nature, origin, importance, speed ; made :

And thy great gain from urging his career. O what a riddle of absurdity!

All-sensual man, because untouch'd, unseen, Leisure is pain; takes off our chariot-wheels; He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing else


still ;

If time past,


Is truly man's; 't is fortune's — Time's a god. | And her dread diary with horrour fills
Hast thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence; Not the gross act alone employs ber pen;
For, or against, what wonders he can do !

She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band;
And will : to stand blank neuter he disdains. A watchful foe! the formidable spy,
Not on those terms was Time (Heaven's stranger!) Listening, o'erhears the whispers of our camp:

Our dawning purposes of heart explores, On his important embassy to man.

And steals our embryos of iniquity. Lorenzo ! no: On the long-destin'd hour,

As all-rapacious usurers conceal From everlasting ages growing ripe,

Their doomsday-book from all-consuming beirs; That memorable hour of wondrous birth,

Thus, with indulgence most severe, sbe treats When the Dread Sire, on emanation bent,

Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; And big with Nature, rising in his might,

Unnoted, notes each moment misapplied ; Call’d forth creation (for then Time was Lorn), In leaves more durable than leaves of brass By Godhead streaming through a thousand worlds ; | Writes our whole history: which Death shall read Not on those terms, from the great days of Heaven, In every pale delinquent's private ear; From old Eternity's mysterious orb,

And Judgment publish ; publish to more worida Was Time cut off, and cast bencath the skies; Than this; and endless age in groans resound The skies, which watch him in his new abode, Lorenzo, such that sleeper in thy breast! Measuring his motions by revolving spheres;

Such is her slumber; and her vengeance such That horologe machinery divine.

[play, For slighted counsel ; such thy future peace! Hours, days, and months, and years, his children And think'st thou still thou canst be wise too soon! Like numerous wings around him, as he flies : But why on time so lavish is my song ? Or, rather, as unequal plumes, they shape

On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school, His ample pinions, swift as darted flame,

To teach her sons herself. Each nigbt we die, To gain his goal, tv reach his ancient rest,

Each morn are born anew : each day, a life! And join anew Eternity, his sire;

And shall we kill each day? If Trifling kills; In his immutability to nest,

Sure Vice must butcher. O what beaps of slain When worlds, that count his circles nou, unhing'd Cry out for vengeance on us! Time destroyd (Fate the loud signal sounding) headlong rush Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt. To timeless night and chaos, whence they rose. Time flies, Death urges, knells call, Heaven invites,

Why spur the speedy? Why with levities Hell threatens: All exerts; in effort, all ; New-wing thy short, short day's too rapid flight? More than creation labours ! - labours more? Know'st thou, or what thou dost, or what is done ? And is there in creation what, amidst Man flies from Time, and Time from man; too soon This tumult universal, wing'd dispatch, In sad divorce this double flight must end ; And ardent energy, supinely yawns? And then, where are we? where, Lorenzo! then Man sleeps ; and man alone; and man, whose fate, Thy sports ? thy pomps ? -- I grant thee, in a state Fate irreversible, entire, extreme, Not unambitious ; in the ruffled shroud,

Endless, hair-hung, breeze-shaken, o'er the gulf Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath. A moment trembles; drops! and man, for who Has Death his fopperies? Then well may Life

All else is in alarm! man, the sole cause Put on her plume, and in her rainbow shine. Of this surrounding storm! and yet he sleeps, Ye well-array'd! ye lilies of our land!

As the storm rock'd to rest. — Throw years away? Ye lilies male ! who neither toil, nor spin,

Throw empires, and be blameless. Moments sex; (As sister lilies might) if not so wise

Heaven's on their wing: a moment we may wish, As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight! When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid Day stand Ye delicate! who nothing can support,

still, Yourselves most insupportable! for whom

Bid him drive back his car, and reimport The winter rose must blow, the Sun put on

The period past, re-give the given hour. A brighter beam in Leo; silky-soft

Lorenzo, more than miracles we want ; Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid ;

Lorenzo - O for yesterdays to come!
And other worlds send odours, sauce, and song,

Such is the language of the man auake;
And robes, and notions, fram'd in foreign looms! His ardour such, for what oppresses thee.
O ye Lorenzos of our age! who deem

And is his ardour vain, Lorenzo ? No;
One moment unamus'd, a misery

That more than miracle the gods indulge; Not made for feeble man who call aloud

To-day is yesterday return’d; return'd For every bawble drivell’d o'er by sense;

Full-power'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn, For rattles, and conceits of every cast,

And reinstate us on the rock of peace. For change of follies, and relays of joy,

Let it not share its predecessor's fate; To drag your patient through the tedious length Nor, like its elder sisters, die a fool. Of a short winter's day- say, sages! say,

Shall it evaporate in fume ? fly off Wit's oracles! say, dreamers of gay

dreams! Fuliginous, and stain us deeper still ? How will you weather an eternal night,

Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd ? Where such expedients fail ?

(sleep More wretched for the clemencies of Heaven? O treacherous Conscience ! while she seems to Where shall I find him? Angels! tell me where. On rose and myrtle, lull’d with syren song ; You know him: he is near you: point him out: While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop Shall I see glories beaming from his brow? On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein,

Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers? And give us up to licence unrecall's

Your golden wings, now hovering o'er him, shed Unmark'd; - see, from behind her secret stand, Protection ; now, are waving in applause The sly informer minutes every fault,

To that blest son of foresight ! lord of fate!

That aweful independent on to-morrow!

As man's despotic will, perhaps one hour, Whose work is done ; who triumphs in the past ; (O how omnipotent is time !) decrees; Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile; Should not each warning give a strong alarm? Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly; Warning, far less than that of bosom torn That common, but opprobrious lot! past hours, From bosom, bleeding o'er the sacred dead ! If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight, Should not each dial strike us as we pass, If folly bounds our prospect by the grave,

Portentous, as the written wall, which struck, All feeling of futurity benumb’d;

O’er midnight bowls, the proud Assyrian pale, All god-like passion for eternals quencht;

Ere-while liigh-flusht with insolence and wine ? All relish of realities expir'd;

Like that, the dial speaks; and points to thee, Renounc'd all correspondence with the skies ;

Lorenzo ! loth to break thy banquet up. Our freedom chain’d; quite wingless our desire ; “ O man, thy kingdom is departing from thee; In sense dark-prison'd all that ought to soar ; And, while it lasts, is emptier than my shade. Prone to the centre; crawling in the dust;

Its silent language such: nor need'st thou call Dismounted every great and glorious aim;

Thy Magi, to decypher what it means. Embruted every faculty divine ;

Know, like the Median, fate is in thy walls: Heart-bury'd in the rubbish of the world.

Dost ask, How? Whence? Belshazzar-like, amaz'd? The world, that gulf of souls, immortal souls, Man's make encloses the sure seeds of death; Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire

Life feeds the murderer : Ingrate! he thrives To reach the distant skies, and triumph there On her own meal, and then bis nurse devours. On thrones, which shall not mourn their masters But here, Lorenzo, the delusion lies: chang'd :

That solar shadow, as it measures life, Though we from Earth; ethereal, they that fell. It life resembles too : speeds away Such veneration due, O man, to man.

From point to point, though seeming to stand still. Who venerate themselves, the world despise. The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth: For what, gay friend ! is this escutcheon'd world, Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Which hangs out Death in one eternal night; Yet soon man's hour is up, and we are gone. A night, that glooms us in the noon-tide ray, Warnings point out our danger; gnomons, time: And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the shroud ? | As these are useless when the Sun is set; Life's little stage is a small eminence,

So those, but when more glorious reason shines, Inch-high the grave above; that home of man, Reason should judge in all; in reason's eye, Where dwells the multitude : We gaze around; That sedentary shadow travels hard. We read their monuments; we sigh; and while

But such our gravitation to the wrong, We sigh, we sink ; and are what we deplor'd; So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish, Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot!

'T is later with the wise than he 's aware : Is Death at distance ? No ; he has been on thee, A Wilmington goes slower than the Sun : And giv'm sure earnest of his final blow.

And all mankind mistake their time of day; Those hours that lately smil'd, where are they now? E'en age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown Pallid to thought, and ghastly ! drown’d, all drown'd In furrow'd brows. To gentle life's descent In that great deep, which nothing disembogues ! We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain. And, dying, they bequeath'd thee small renown. We take fair days in winter, for the spring; The rest are on the wing: how feet their flight! And turn our blessing into bane. Since oft Already has the fatal train took fire;

Man must compute that age he cannot feel, A moment, and the world's blown up to thee; He scarce believes he 's older for his years. The Sun is darkness, and the stars are dust. Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in store

"T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours; One disappointment sure, to crown the rest ; And ask them, what report they bore to Heaven; The disappointment of a promis'd hour. And how they might have borne more welcome On this, or similar, Philander! thou

Whose mind was moral, as the preacher's tongue; Their answers form what men crperience call ; And strong, to wield all science, worth the name; If wisdom's friend, her best ; if not, worst foe. How often we talk'd down the summer's Sun, O reconcile them! Kind Erperience cries,

And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream! “ There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs; How often thaw'd and shorten'd winter's eve, The more our joy, the more we know it vain ; By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth, And by success are tutor'd to despair.”

Best found, so sought; to the recluse more coy! Nor is it only thus, but must be so.

Thoughts disentangle passing o'er the lip; Who knows not this, though gray, is still a child. Clean runs the thread; if not, 't is thrown away, Loose then from Earth the grasp of fond desire, Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song; Weigh anchor, and some happier clime explore. Song, fashionably fruitless; such as stains

Art thou so moor'd thou canst not disengage, The fancy, and unhallow'd passion fires; Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future scenes ? Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane. Since by life's passing breath, blown up from Earth, Know'st thou, Lorenzo! what a friend contains ? Light as the summer's dust, we take in air As bees mixt nectar draw from fragrant flowers, A moment's giddy flight, and fall again;

So men from friendship, wisdom and delight ; Join the dull mass, increase the trodden soil, Twins ty’d-by Nature; if they part, they die. And sleep, till Earth herself shall be no more ; Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach? Since then (as emmets, their small world o'erthrown) Good sense will stagnate. Thoughts shut up want We, sore amaz’d, from out Earth's ruins crawl,

air, And rise to fáte extreme of foul or fair,

And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the Sun. As man's own choice (controller of the skies !) Had thought been all, sweet speech had been denied;


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