He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire.
Where is that thrift, that avarice of Time,
(Blest avarice!) which the thought of death inspires?
O time! than gold more sacred; more a load
Than lead, to fools; and fools reputed wise.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid?
Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door,
Insiduous Death! should his strong hand arrest,
No composition sets the prisoner free;
Eternity's inexorable chain
Fast binds; and vengeance claims the full arrear.
How late I shudder'd on the brink! how late
Life call'd for her last refuge in despair!
For what calls thy disease? for moral aid.
Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon.
Youth is not rich in time;
it may be poor: Part with it as with money, sparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth:
And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come.
Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain?
And sport we, like the natives of the bough,
When vernal suns inspire? Amusement reigns,
Man's great demand: to trifle is to live:
And is it, then, a trifle, too, to die?
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle?
Is it not treason to the soul immortal,
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize?
Will toys amuse, when med'cines cannot cure ?
When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes
Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight;
(As lands, and cities with their glittering spires
To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm
Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there ;)
Will toys amuse?—No: thrones will then be toys,
And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale.
Redeem we time?—its loss we dearly buy.
What pleads Lorenzo for his high-prized sports?
He pleads time's num'rous blanks; he loudly pleads
The straw-like trifles on life's common stream.
From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee?
No blank, no trifle, nature made or meant.
Virtue or purposed virtue, still be thine :
This cancels thy complaint at once; this leaves
In act no trifle, and no blank in time.
This greatens, fills, immortalises all;
This, the good heart's prerogative to raise
A royal tribute, from the poorest hours.
Immense revenue! every moment pays.
If nothing more than purpose in thy power,
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; Guard well thy thoughts; our thoughts are heard in heaven.
On all-important time, through every age,
Though much, and warm, the wise have urged; the man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour.
"I've lost a day"-the prince who nobly cried,
Had been an emperor without his crown.
He spoke, as if deputed by mankind.
So should all speak: so reason speaks in all.
From the soft whispers of that God in man,
Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly,
For rescue from the blessings we possess?
Time, the supreme!-Time is eternity;
Pregnant with all eternity can give,
Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile :
Who murders time, he crushes in the birth
A power ethereal, only not adored.
LET them sing who may of the battle fray,
And the deeds that have long since past;
Let them chant in praise of the tar whose days
Are spent on the ocean vast.
I would render to these all the worship you please, I would honour them even now;
But I'd give far more from my heart's full store, To the cause of the Good Old Plough.
Let them laud the notes that in music float
Through the bright and glittering halls:
While the amorous twirl of the hair's bright curl
Round the shoulder of beauty falls.
But dearer to me is the song from the tree,
And the rich and blossoming bough;
Oh, these are the sweets which the rustic greets,
As he follows the Good Old Plough.
Full many there be that daily we see,
With a selfish and hollow pride,
Who the ploughman's lot, in his humble cot,
With a scornful look deride;
But I'd rather take a hearty shake
From his hand, than to wealth I'd bow;
For the honest clasp of his hand's rough grasp
Has stood by the Good Old Plough.
All honour be, then, to these gray old men,
When at last they are bow'd with toil;
Their warfare then o'er, they battle no more,
For they've conquer'd the stubborn soil.
And the chaplet each wears, is his silver hairs;
And ne'er shall the victor's brow,
With a laurel crown, to the grave go down,
Like the sons of the Good Old Plough.
-American Newspaper.
O KING of earth and air and sea!
The hungry ravens cry to Thee;
To Thee the scaly tribes that sweep
The bosom of the boundless deep;
To Thee the lions roaring call,
The common Father, kind to all!
Then grant Thy servants, Lord! we pray,
Our daily bread from day to day!
The fishes may for food complain;
The ravens spread their wings in vain;
The roaring lions lack and pine;'
But, God! Thou carest still for Thine!
Thy bounteous hand with food can bless
The bleak and lonely wilderness;
And Thou hast taught us, Lord! to pray
For daily bread from day to day!
And oh, when through the wilds we roarn
That part us from our heavenly home;
When, lost in danger, want, and woe,
Our faithless tears begin to flow;
|