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How widow'd every thought of every joy!
Thought, bufy thought! too bufy for my peace!
Through the dark postern of Time long elaps'd,
Led foftly, by the ftillness of the night,
Led, like a murderer, (and fuch it proves!)
Strays (wretched rover !) o'er the pleasing paft;
In queft of wretchednefs perverfely ftrays;
And finds all defart now; and meets the ghofts -
Of my departed joys, a numerous train !

I rue the riches of my former fate ;
Sweet Comfort's blafted clusters I lament;
I tremble at the bleffings once fo dear;
And every pleasure pains me to the heart.

Yet why complain? or why complain for one? →
Hangs out the fun his luftre but for me,
The fingle man? are angels all befide?

I mourn for millions: "Tis the common lot :
In this fhape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throes on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than fure heirs of pain.
War, famine, peft, volcano, ftorm, and fire,
Inteftine broils, Oppreffion, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brafs, befiege mankind :.
God's image, difinherited of day.

Here plung'd in mines, forgets a fun 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 defpair:
Some for hard mafters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread through realms their valour fav'd,
If fo the tyrant, or his minions, doom:
Want, and incurable Difeafe, (fell pair!)
On hopeless multitudes remorfelefs feize
At once, and make a refuge of the grave:
How groaning hospitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for fad admiftion there!
What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold hand of charity!

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To fhock us more, folicit it in vain!

Ye filken fons of pleafure! fince in pains
You rue more modish vifits, visit 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 forrow seize on fuch alone;
Not prudence can defend, or virtue save ;
Difeafe invades the chafteft temperance;
And punishment the guiltlefs; and alarm,
Thro' thickeft fhades pursues 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 course 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 beft on earth.
But endless is the lift of human ills ;

And fighs might fooner fail, than cause to figh.
A part how fmall of the terraqueous globe
Is tenanted by man. the reft a waste,
Rocks, defarts, frozen feas, and burning fands;
Wild haunts of monfters, poifons, ftings, and death.
Such is earth's melancholy map! But, far
More fad this earth is a true map of man:
So bounded are his haughty lord's delights
To Wo's wide empire; where deep troubles tofs;
Loud forrows howl, invenom'd passions bite;
Ravenous calamities our vitals feize,

And threatening Fate wide opens to devour.
What then am I, who forrow for myself ?
age, in infancy, from others aid

In

Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind;
That Nature's firft, laft leffon to mankind.

The selfish heart deferves the pain it feels;
More generous forrow, while it finks, exalts,
And confcious virtue mitigates the pang.
Nor virtue, more than Prudence, bids me give
Swoln thought a fecond channel; Who divide,
They weaken too the torrent of their grief,
Take then, O World! thy much indebted tear,.
How fad a fight is human happiness

To thofe whofe thought can pierce beyond an hour!
O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults!
Wouldst thou I should 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.

Thon happy wretch! by blindness thou art bleft;
By dotage dandled to perpetual fmiles.
Know, /miler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd;
Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.
Misfortune, like a creditor fevere,
But rifes in demand for her delay;
She makes a fcourge of past profperity,
To fting thee more, and double thy distress.
LORENZO, Fortune makes her court to thee;
Thy fond heart dances while the firen 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 ftorm;
Stand on thy guard against the smiles of fate,
Is heav'n tremendous in its frowns, most 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;
O'er our scann'd conduct give a jealous eye,
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our defert;
Awe Nature's tumults, and chaftife 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 refentiment four'd,
With rage invenomed rife againft 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 figh
Diffolv'd the charm; the disenchanted earth
Loft all her luftre. Where her glittering 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 outcaft earth, in darknefs! what a change
From yesterday! thy darling hope fo near,
(Long labour'd prize!) O how Ambition flufh'd
Thy glowing cheek! Ambition, truly great,
Of virtuous praife. Death's fubtle feed within
(Sly treacherous miner !) working in the dark,
Smil'd at thy well concerted scheme, and beckon❜d
The worm to riot on that rofe fo red,
Unfaded e're it fell! one moment's prey !
Man's forefight is conditionally wife;
LORENZO ! wifdom into folly turns -

Oft, the firft inftant; its idea fair

To labouring thought is born. How dim our eye! The prefent moment terminates our fight;

Clouds, thick as those on doomsday, drown the next

We penetrate, we prophefy in vain.

Time is dealt out by particles; and each,

E're mingled with the ftreaming fands of life,
By Fate's inviolable oath is fworn

be now;

Deep filence, "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.

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Is fure to none: And yet on this perhaps,
This per adventure, infamous for lies,
As on a rock of adamant, we build

Our mountain-hopes; fpin out eternal schemes,
As we the fatal fifters would out-spin,

And, big with life's futurities, expire.

Not even PHILANDER had befpoke 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 surprize? Be wife to day; 'tis madness to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; Thus on, till wifdom is pufh'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 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 praife; At leaft, their own; their future felves applauds. How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vail; That lodg'd in Fate's, to wifdom they confign; The thing they can't but purpofe, they poftpone 'Tis not in Folly, not to fcorn a fool; And fearce in human wisdom to do more. All promife is poor dilatory man,

And that thro' every ftage. When young, indeed, In full content we fometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,

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