Beware what earth calls happiness; beware All joys, but joys that never can expire. Who builds on less than an immortal base, Fond as he seems, condemns his joys to death. Mine dy'd with thee, Philander! thy laft figh 345 Diffolv'd the charm; the difenchanted earth
Loft all her luftre. Where her glittering towers ? Her golden mountains, where? all darken'd down To naked waste; a dreary vale of tears;
The great magician's dead! Thou poor, pale piece 350 Of out-caft earth, in darknefs! what a change From yesterday! Thy darling hope fo near, (Long-labour'd prize!) O how ambition flush'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 rose so red,
Unfaded ere it fell; one moment's prey!
Man's forefight is conditionally wife; Lorenzo! wisdom into folly turns
Oft, the first instant, 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; 365 We penetrate, we prophecy in vain.
Time is dealt out by particles; and each
Ere mingled with the streaming fands of life,
By Fate's inviolable oath is fworn
Deep filence, "Where eternity begins."
By nature's law, what may be, may be now; There's no prerogative in human hours. In human hearts what bolder thought can rife, Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn? Where is to-morrow? In another world. For numbers this is certain; the reverfe Is fure to none; and yet on this perhaps, This peradventure, infamous for lies, As on a rock of adamant, we build
Our mountain hopes; fpin out eternal schemes, 380 As we the fatal fifters could out-spin,
And, big with life's futurities, expire.
Not ev'n Philander had bespoke his shroud : Nor had he cause; a warning was deny'd:
How many fall as fudden, not as safe !
As fudden, though for years admonish'd home. Of human ills the last extreme beware, Beware, Lorenzo! a flow fudden death. How dreadful that deliberate furprize! Be wife to-day; 'tis madness to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is push'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 still. 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 shall not drivel: and their pride On this reverfion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future felves applaud; 405 How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!
Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's vails; That lodg'd in fates, to wisdom they confign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they poftpone; 'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;
And scarce in human wisdom, to do more.
All promife is poor dilatory man,
And that through every ftage: when young, indeed, In full content we, fometimes, nobly reft,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous fons, our fathers were more wise. 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 some alarming shock of fate 425 Strikes through their wounded hearts the fudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon clofe; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing, no fcar the sky retains; The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thoughts of death, Ev'n with the tender tear which nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. Can I forget Philander? That were strange! O my full heart!-But fhould I give it vent, The longest night, though longer far, would fail, And the lark listen to my midnight song.
The fpritely lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn; Grief's fharpeft thorn hard preffing on my breast, I ftrive, with wakeful melody, to chear The fullen gloom, sweet Philomel! like Thee, And call the stars to liften: every star Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay. Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm through distant ages: wrapt in fhade, 445 Prifoner of darknefs! to the filent hours,
How often I repeat their rage divine,
To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe! 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 Mænoides our Own. Man too He fung: immortal man I fing; Oft burfts my fong beyond the bounds of life; What, now, but immortality can please?
O had He prefs'd his theme, pursued 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 bleft mankind, and rescued me!
TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.
RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.
"WHEN the Cock crew, he wept"-fmote by that
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 lumber, into thoughts of heaven. Shall I too weep? Where then is fortitude? And, fortitude abandon'd, where is man? I know the terms on which he sees the light; He that is born, is lifted; life is war; Eternal war with woe. Who bears it beft, Deferves it least.-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, though dead, 15 May still befriend-What themes? Time's wondrous
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