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As duteous fons, our fathers were more wife
At thirty man fufpects himself 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-refolves; Then dies the fame.
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal;
All men think all men mortal, but themselves;
Themselves, when fome alarming fhock of fate
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the fudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where pass'd the fhaft, 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;
Even 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 longeft night, though longer far, would fail,
And the lark liften to my midnight long.

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 Philome!! like thee,
And call the ftars to liften; Every far
Is deaf to mine, enamourd of thy lay.
Yet be not vain; there are who thine excel,
And charm thro' diftant ages; Wrapt in fhade,
Prifoner of darknefs! to the filent hours,
How often I repeat their rage divine,

To lull my griefs, and fteal my heart from wo?
I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire.
Dark, though not blind, like thee. Mæonides!

Or Milton! thee, ah, could I reach your ftrain ?
Or his, who made Maonides our own.
Man too he fung; Immortal man, I fing;
Oft bursts my fong beyond the bounds of life;

What, now, but immortality can please?
O had he preff'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 bless'd mankind, and rescu'd me!

THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT THE SECOND.

ON

TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.

'W'

HEN the cock

crew, he wept"-fmote by that eye

Which looks on me, on all; That Power, who bids
This midnight-centinel, with clarion fhrill,
(Emblem of that which fhall awake the dead)
Roufe fouls from flumber into thoughts of heav'n.
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 wo; Who bears it beft,
Deferves it leaft.-On other themes I'll dwell."
LORENZO ! let me turn my thoughts on thee;
And thine on themes may profit; profit there
Where moft thy need; Themes, too, the genuine
growth

Of dear PHILANDER's duft. He thus, tho' dead,
May still befriend.-What themes? Time's wondrous
price,
Death, friendship, and PHILANDER's final foene:
Themes meet for man! and meet at every hour,
But most at this, at midnight, ever clad
In Death's own fables; filent as his realms ;
And prone to weep; profuse of dewy tears
O'er nature, in her temporary tomb.

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 impress

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 thrift, that avarice of TIME,
(0 glorious avarice!) thought of death infpires,
As rumoured 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, wisdom'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 strong hand arreft,
No compofition fets the prifoner 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 feng is mortal, past thy cure:
Accept the will; it dies not with my ftrain.

For what calls thy difeafe, LORENZO? Hot
For Efculapian, but for moral aid.

Thou think'ft it folly to be wife too foon.
Youth is not rich in time; it may be, peor;
Part with it as with money, fparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth;
And what its worth, afk death-beads; 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, wisdom, glory, gain?
(Thefe heaven benign in vital union binds)
And fport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal funs infpire? Amusement reigns.

C

Man's great demand; To trifle is to live;
And is it then a trifle too to die?

Thou fay't I preach LORENZO ! 'tis confefs'd.
What if for once I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle?
Is it not treafon to 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 scenes
Their luftre lofe, and leffen in our fight,

(As lands, and cities with their glitt'ring fpires.
To the poor shatter'd bark, by fudden form
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 Lo ENZO for his high-priz'd fports?
He pleads Time's numerous blanks; he loudly pleads
The fraw-like trifles on life's common ftream,
From whom thofe blanks and trifles, but from thee?
No blank, or trife, Nature made, or meant.
Virtue, or purpos'd virtue, fill be thine;

This cancels thy complaint at once! this leaves
In act no trike, and no blank in time;
This greatens, fills, immortalizes all;
This, the blefs'd art of turning all to gold;
This the good heart's prerogative to raise
A royal tribute from the poorest hours;
Immenfe reveaue! every moment pays.
If nothing more than purpofe in thy power;
Thy purpofe fm, is equal to the deed!"
Who does the bell his circumitance allows,
Dots vell, as nobly; angels could no more.
Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint ;
'Tis not in things oe'r thought to domineer;
Guard well thy thoughts; our thoughts are heard in

heay n.

On all important Time, thro' every age,

Tho' much, and warm, the wife have urg'd; the mani

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