Imbitter'd all our blifs. Ye good distrest!
Ye noble few! who here unbending ftand
Beneath life's preffure, yet bear up a while,
And what your bounded view, which only faw
A little part, deem'd Evil, is no more.
The storms of WINTRY TIME will quickly pafs,
And one unbounded SPRING encircle all.

CHA P. XXIII.

THOMSON.

ON PROCRASTINATION.

B Next day the fatal will

Next day the fatal precedent will plead ;
Thus on, till wifdom 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 fcene.

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 praise;

At least, 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 vails;
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 scarce in human Wisdom to do more.

All

All Promife is poor dilatory man,

And that thro' ev'ry ftage. When young, indeed,
In full content, we fometimes, nobly reft,
Un-anxious for ourfelves; and only with,
As duetous 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,
Pufhes his prudent purpofe 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 clofe; where paft the fhaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no fear the fky retains ;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which nature fheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

YOUNG.

CHAP.

XXIV.

THE PAIN ARISING FROM VIRTUOUS
EMOTIONS ATTENDED WITH PLEASURE.

EHOLD the ways

B of Heav'ns eternal deftiny to man,

For ever juft, benevolent and wife:

That VIRTUE's awful fteps, howe'er purfued
.G 2

By

1

By vexing fortune and intrufive PAIN,

Should never be divided from her chafte,

Her fair attendant, PLEASURE. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought through all the various round

Of this existence, that thy foft'ning foul

At length may learn what energy the hand
Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of paffion fwelling with distress and pain,
To mitigate the fharp with gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure? Afk the faithful youth,
While the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd
So often fills his arms; fo often draws
His lonely footsteps at the filent hour,

Το pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er feduce his bofom to forego
That facred hour, when ftealing from the noise
Of care and envy, fweet remembrance fooths
With virtue's kindeft looks his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture.-Afk the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village-walk
To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below
The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coaft
Some hapless bark; while facred pity melts.
The gen'ral eye, or terror's icy hand

Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
While every mother closer to her breast
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam thro' the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms
For fuccour, fwallow'd by the roaring furge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,

Drops

Drops lifeless down. O deemeft thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature giv'n
To mutual terror and compaffion's tears ?
No fweetly-melting foftnefs which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the focial pow'rs
To this their proper action and their end?-
Afk thy own heart; when at the midnight hour,
Slow thro' that ftudious gloom thy paufing eye
Led by the glimm'ring taper moves around
The facred volumes of the dead, the fongs
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame
For Grecian Heroes, where the prefent pow'r
Of heav'n and earth furveys th' immortal page,
E'en as a father blefling, while he reads
The praises of his fon; if then thy soul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame:
Say, when the profpect blackens on thy view,
When rooted from the base, heroic ftates
Mourn in the duft and tremble at the frown
Of curft ambition ;-when the pious band
Of youths that fought for freedom and their fires
Lie fide by fide in gore ;-when ruffian-pride
Ufurps the throne of juftice, turns the pomp
Of public pow'r, the majefty of rule,
The fword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To flavish empty pageants, to adorn

A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of fuch as bow the knee ;-when honour'd urns
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust
And storied arch, to glut the coward-rage
Of regal envy, ftrew the public way

2

With hallow'd ruins!-when the mufe's haunt,
The marble porch where wisdom wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarfe jargon of contentious monks,
Or female fuperftition's midnight pray'r ;-
When ruthlefs rapine from the hand of time
Tears the deftroying fcythe, with furer blow
To fweep the works of glory from their base;
Till defolation o'er the grafs-grown freet
Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall,
Where fenates once the pride of monarch's doom'd,
Hiffes the gliding fake thro' hoary weeds
That clafp the mould'ring column ;-thus defac'd,
Thus widely mournful when the profpect thrills
Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car;-
Say, does thy fecret foul repine to tafte
The big diftrefs? Or would'st thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling forrows, for the lot
Of him who fits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aloft his gold-invefted front,
And fays within himself, "I am a king,

"And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of woe
"Intrude upon mine ear ?"-The baleful dregs
Of thefe late ages, this inglorious draught

Of fervitude and folly, have not yet,
Bleft be th' Eternal Ruler of the world!
Defil'd to fuch a depth of fordid shame

The