And is his ardour vain, Lorenzo? No;
That more than miracle the gods indulge; To-day is Yesterday return'd; return'd
Full power'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn, And reinftate us on the Rock of peace. Let it not share its predeceffor's fate; Nor, like its elder fifters, die a fool. Shall it evaporate in fume? fly off Fuliginous, and ftain us deeper ftill ?
Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd ?
More wretched for the clemencies of heaven?
Where shall I find Him? Angels! tell me where. 325 You know him: He is near you: Point him out: Shall I fee glories beaming from his brow? Or trace his footsteps by the rifing flowers? Your golden wings, now hovering o'er him, fhed Protection; now, are waving in applause
To that bleft fon of forefight! lord of fate! That awful independent on To-morrow!
Whose work is done; who triumphs in the Paft; Whofe refterdays look backwards with a smile; Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly; 335 That common, but opprobious lot! paft hours, If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight, If folly bounds our profpect by the grave,
All feeling of futurity benumb'd;
All god-like paffion for eternals quencht;
All relish of realties expir'd;
Renounc'd all correspondence with the skies;
Our freedom chain'd; quite wingless our defire;
In fenfe dark-prison'd all that ought to foar Prone to the centre; crawling in the dust; Difmounted every great and glorious aim; Embruted every faculty divine;
Heart-bury'd in the rubbish of the world.
The world, that gulph of fouls, immortal fouls, Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire
To reach the distant skies, and triumph there
On thrones, which shall not mourn their mafters chang'd;
Though we from Earth; Ethereal, they that fell. Such veneration due, O man, to man.
Who venerate themselves, the world despise. For what, gay friend! is this efcutcheon'd world, Which hangs out Death in one eternal night; A night, that glooms us in the noon-tide ray, And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the shroud? Life's little stage is a small eminence,
Inch-high the grave above; that home of man, Where dwells the multitude: We gaze around; We read their monuments; we figh; and while We figh, we fink; and are what we deplor❜d; Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot!
Is death at diftance? No: He has been on thee, And given fure earnest of his final blow.
Those hours that lately fmil'd, where are they now? Pallid to thought, and ghaftly! drown'd, all drown'd In that great deep, which nothing difembogues! 370 And, dying, they bequeath'd thee small renown. The reft are on the wing: how fleet their flight! Already has the fatal train took fire;
A moment, and the world 's blown up to thee; The fun is darkness, and the stars are dust.
'Tis greatly wife to talk with our past hours; And ask them, what report they bore to heaven; And how they might have borne more welcome news. Their answers form what men Experience call;
If Wisdom's friend, her beft; if not, worft foe. 380 O reconcile them! Kind Experience cries, "There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs; "The more our joy, the more we know it vain;
And by fuccefs are tutor'd to despair." Nor is it only thus, but must be fo.
Who knows not this, though grey, is still a child. Loose then from earth the grafp of fond defire, Weigh anchor, and fome happier clime explore. Art thou fo moor'd thou canst not difengage, Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future scenes? Since by Life's paffing breath, blown up from earth, Light as the fummer's duft, we take in air A moment's giddy flight, and fall again; Join the dull mafs, increase the trodden foil, And sleep, till earth herself shall be no more; Since then (as emmets, their small world o'erthrown)
We, fore amaz'd, from out earth's ruins crawl, And rife to fate extreme of foul or fair,
As man's own choice (controuler of the skies!) As man's defpotic will, perhaps one hour, (O how omnipotent is time!) decrees; Should not each warning give a strong alarm? Warning, far lefs than that of befom torn
From bofom, bleeding o'er the facred dead! Should not each dial ftrike us as we pass, Portentous, as the written wall, which struck, O'er midnight bowls, the proud Affyrian pale, Ere-while high-flusht with infolence and wine? Like that, the dial speaks; and points to thee, Lorenzo! loth to break thy banquet up: "O man, thy kingdom is departing from thee; “And, while it lafts, is emptier than my shade.” Its filent language fuch: nor need'it thou call Thy Magi, to decypher what it means.
Know, like the Median, fate is in thy walls:
Doft afk, How? Whence? Belshazzar-like, amaz'd? Man's make incloses the fure seeds of death; Life feeds the murderer; Ingrate! he thrives On her own meal, and then his nurfe devours.
But here, Lorenzo, the delufion lies ; That folar fhadow, as it measures life, It life resembles too: life speeds away
From point to point, though seeming to stand still. The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth:
Too fubtle is the movement to be feen;
Yet foon man's hour is up, and we are gone. Warnings point out our danger; Gnomons, time: As these are useless when the fun is fet:
So thofe, but when more glorious Reafon fhines. Reafon fhould judge in all; in reafon's eye, That fedentary fhadow travels hard. But fuch our gravitation to the wrong, So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish,
'Tis later with the wife than he's aware: A Wilmington goes flower than the fun: And all mankind mistake their time of day; Ev'n age itfelf. Fresh hopes are hourly fown In furrow'd brows. To gentle life's defcent We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain. We take fair days in winter, for the fpring; And turn our bleffings into bane. Since oft Man must compute that age he cannot feel, He scarce believes he's older for his years. Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in ftore
One disappointment fure, to crown the reft; The difappointment of a promis'd hour..
On This, or fimilar, Philander! thou
Whose mind was moral, as the preacher's tongue; And strong, to wield all science, worth the name; How often we talk'd down the fummer's fun, And cool'd our paffions by the breezy stream! How often thaw'd and fhorten'd winter's eve, By conflict kind, that ftruck out latent truth, Beft found, fo fought; to the Reclufe more coy! Thoughts difentangle paffing o'er the lip;
Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away, Or kept to tie up nonfenfe for a fong;
Song, fashionably fruitlefs; fuch as ftains The Fancy, and unhallow'd Paffion fires; Chiming her faints to Cytherea's fane.
Know'ft thou, Lorenzo! what a friend contains ? As bees mixt Nectar draw from fragrant flowers, So men from friendship, Wisdom and Delight;
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