I roll their Raptures, but not catch their fire.
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee ah! could I reach your Strain!
Or His, who made Mæonides our Own.
Man too he fung: Immortal Man I fing;
Oft bursts my Song beyond the Bounds of Life;
What now, but Immortality, can please? 455
Q had He prefs'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 bleft Mankind, and rescu'd me!
WHEN the Crow crew, he wept"-Smote by that
Which looks on me, on All: That Pow'r, who
This Midnight Centinel, with Clarion fhrill,
(Emblem of that which shall awake the Dead,)
Rouse Souls from Slumber, 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 Woe. Who bears it best,
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 most thy need. Themes, too, the genuine
Growth
Of dear PHILANDER'S Duft. He, thus, tho' dead, 15 May still befriend-What Themes? Time's wond'rous
Death, Friendship, and PHILANDER's final Scene. So could I touch these Themes, as might obtain C
Thine Ear nor leave thy Heart quite difengag'd
The good Deed would delight me; half-imprefs 20
On my dark Cloud an Iris; and from Grief
Call Glory-Doft thou mourn PHILANDIR's Fate?
I know thou fay'ft it: Says thy Life the fame ?
He mourns the Dead, who lives as they defire.
Where is that Thrift, that Avarice of TIME
(O glorious Avarice!) Thoughts of Death inspires,
As rumour'd 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 rears are fquander'd, Wisdom's Debt unpaid!
Our Wealth in Days all due to that Difcharge.
Hafte, hafte, He lies in wait, He's at the Door,
Infidious Death! fhould his ftrong Hand arreft,
No Compofition fets the Pris'ner 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 laft 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 fong is mortal, past thy Cure.
Accept the Will;-That dies not with my Strain.
For what calls thy Difeafe, LORENZO? Not
- For Efculapian, but for Moral Aid.
Thou think'ft it Folly to be wife too soon.
"Youth is not rich in Time; it may be, poor; 1
Part with it as with Money, fparing; pay
No Moment but in Purchase of its Worth;
And what its Worth, afk Death-beds; they can tell. Part with it as with Life: reluctant; big
With holy Hope of nobler Time to come;
Time higher-aim'd, still nearer the great Mark
Of Men and Angels; Virtue more divine.
Is this our Duty, Wisdom, Glory, Gain?
(Thefe Heav'n benign in vital Union binds)
And fport we like the Natives of the bough,
When vernal Suns infpire? Amusement reigns
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 confeft. What if, for once, I preach thee quite arvake? Who wants Amufement in the Flame of Battle? Is it not treason to the Soul immortal, Her Foes in Arms, Eternity the Prize? Will Toys amufe, when Med'cines cannot cure? When Spirits ebb, when Life's enchanting Scenes Their Luftre lofe, and leffen in our Sight, As Lands and Cities with their glitt'ring Spires, 7 To the poor fhatter'd Bark, by fudden Storm Thrown off to Sea, and foon to perish there; Will Toys amufe? No: Thrones will then be Toys, And Earth and Skies feem Duft upon the Scale.
Redeem we Time?-Its Lofs we dearly buy. What pleads LORENZO for his high-priz'd Sports?" He pleads Time's num'rous Blanks; he loudly pleads The ftraw-like Trifles on Life's common Stream. From whom those Blanks and Trifles, but from Thee? No Blanks, no Trifle, Nature made or meant. Virtue, or purpos'd Virtue, ftill be thine;
This cancels thy Complaint at once; This leaves
In Act no Trifle, and no Blank in Time.
This greatens, fills, immortalizes All;
This, the bleft Art of turning all to Gold:
This, the good Heart's Prerogative to raise
A royal Tribute from the poorest Hours;
Immenfe Revenue! ev'ry moment Pays.
If nothing more than Purpose in thy pow'r;
Thy purpofe firm, is equal to the Deed:
Who does the best his Circumftance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; Angels could no more.
Our outward A&t, indeed, admits restraint:
'Tis not in Things o'er Thought to domineer; [Heav'n.
Guard well thy Thought; our Thoughts are heard in
On all-important Time, thro' every age,
Though much, and warm, the Wife have urg'd; the
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour,
Mán
"I've loft a Day."---The Prince who nobly cry'd,
Had been an Emperor without his crown;
Of Rome Say, rather, Lord of human Race:
He fpoke, as if deputed by Mankind.
So fhould all fpeak: So Reafon fpeaks in all;
From the foft Whispers of that God in Man,
C 2
Why fly to Folly, why to Frenzy fly,
For Rescue from the Bleffings we poffefs?
Timé, the Supreme !-Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all Eternity can give ;
Pregnant with all that makes Archangels fmile.
Who murders Time, He crushes in the Birth
A Pow'r ethereal, only not ador'd.
Ah! how unjust to Nature, and Himself,
Is thoughtless, thanklefs, inconfiftent Man!
Like Children babbling Nonsense in their Sports,
We cenfure Nature for a Span too fhort;
That Span too fhort, we tax as tedious too;
Torture Invention, all Expedients tire,
To lafh the ling'ring Moments into speed,
And whirl us (happy riddance !) from ourselves.
Art, brainless Art! our furious Charioteer,
(For Nature's Voice unftifled would recal)
Drives headlong tow'rds the Precipice of Death;
Death, moft our Dread; Death thus more dreadful
O what a riddle of Abfurdity!
[made;
Leifure is pain; takes off our Chariot-wheels; 125
How heavily we drag the Load of Life!
Bleft Leisure is our Curfe; like that of Cain, gu
It makes us wander; wander Earth around
To fly that Tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groan'd
The World, beneath, we groan beneath an Hour. 130
We cry
for mercy to the next amusement;
The next Amusement mortgages our Fields !
Slight Inconvenience! Prifons hardly frown,
From hateful Time if Prifons fet us free.
Yet when Death kindly tenders us Relief,
We call him cruel; Years to Moments fhrink,
Ages to Years. The Telescope is turn'd.
To Man's falfe Opticks (from his Folly)
Time, in Advance, behind him hides his Wings,
And feems to creep decripit with his age:
Behold him, when paft by; what then is feen,
But his broad Pinions fwifter than the Winds?
And all Mankind, in Contradiction ftrong,
Rueful, aghaft! cry out in his Career.
Leave to thy Foes thefe Errors, and thefe Ills; 145 To Nature juft, their Cause and Cure explore.
Not fhort Heav'n's Bounty, boundlefs our Expence ;
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