For Rattles, and Conceits of ev'ry Caft,

For Change of Follies, and Relays of Joy,
To drag your Patient through the tedious Length
Of a fhort Winter's Dayfay, Sages! fay,.
Wit's Oracles! fay, Dreamers of gay Dreams!
How will you weather an eternal Night,
Where fuch Expedients fail?

O Treach'rous Confcience! while fhe feems to fleep
On Rofe and Myrtle, lull'd with Syren Song;
While fhe feems, nodding o'er her Charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the slacken'd Rein,

And give us up to Licence, unrecall'd,

Unmarkt;-See, from behind her fecret Stand,
The fly Informer minutes ev'ry Fault,
And her dread Diary with Horror fills.
Not the grofs Act alone employs her Pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy Band,

A watchful Foe! The formidable Spy,

Lift'ning, o'erhears the Whispers of our Camp:
Our dawning Purposes of Heart explores,

And fteals our Embryos of Iniquity.

As all-rapacious Ufurers conceal

Their Doomsday-book from all-confuming Heirs;
Thus, with Indulgence moft fevere, She treats
Us Spendthrifts of iceftimable Time;

Unnoted, notes each Moment mifapply'd;

In Leaves more durable than Leaves of Brafs,
Writes our whole Hiftory; which Death fhall rend
In ev'ry pale Delinquent's private Ear;

And Judgment publish; publish to more Worlds
Than this; and endless Age in Groans refound.
LORENZO, fuch that Sleeper in thy Breast!
Such is her Slumber; and her Vengeance fuch
For flighted Counsel; fuch thy future Peace!
And think'st thou ftill thou can't be wife too foon?
But why on Time fo lavish is my Song?
On this great Theme kind Nature keeps a School,
To teach her Sons Herfelf. Each Night we die,
Each Morn are born anew: Each Day, a Life!
And shall we kill each Day? If Trifling kills;
Sure Vice must butcher. O what heaps of Slain
Cry out for Vengeance on us! Time deftroy'd

Is Suicide, where more than Blood is fpilt.

Time flies, Death urges, Knells call, Heav'n invites, Hell threatens: All exerts; in Effort, All;

More than Creation labours!-Labours more?

And is there in Creation, what, amidst

This Tumult Univerfal, wing'd Dispatch,
And ardent Energy, fupinely yawns?---

Man fleeps; and Man alone; and Man, whofe Fate,
Fate irreversible, intire, extreme,

Endlefs, hair-hung, breeze-fhaken, o'er the Gulph

A Moment trembles; drops! and Man, for whom
All else is in Alarm; Man, the fole Cause

Of this furrounding Storm! And yet he fleeps,
As the Storm rock'd to reft.-Throw Years away ?
Throw Empires, and be blameless. Moments feize.
Heav'n's on their Wing: A Moment we may wish,
When Worlds want Wealth to buy. Bid Day stand still,
Bid him drive back his Car, recall, retake
Fate's hafty Prey: Implore him, reimport
The Period past, regive the given Hour.
LORENZO, more than Miracles we want;
LORENZO-O for Yefterdays to come!

Such is the Language of the Man awake ;
His Ardor fuch, for what oppresses Thee.
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 Sifters, 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 Heav'n ?

Where

Where fhall I find Him? Angels! tell me where. 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 hov'ring o'er him, fhed
Protection; now are waving in Applaufe
To that bleft Son of Forefight! Lord of Fate!
That aweful Independent on To-morrow!
Whofe Work is done; who triumphs in the Paft;
Whofe Yesterdays look backwards with a Smile;
Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly;
That common, but opprobrious 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 Realities expir'd;

Renounc'd all Correfpondence with the Skies;
Our Freedom chain'd; quite winglefs our Defire;
In Sense dark-prison'd all that ought to foar
Prone to the Centre; crawling in the Duft;
Difmounted ev'ry great and glorious Aim;

Embruted ev'ry Faculty divine;

Heart-bury'd in the Rubbish of the World.

The World, that Gulph of Souls, immortal Souls,

Souls elevate, Angelic, wing'd with Fire

To reach the diftant Skies, and triumph there

OnThrones, which shall not mourn their Masters chang'd,
Tho' 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 Distance? No: He has been on thee; And giv'n fure Earneft of his final Blow.

Thofe Hours, which lately fmil'd, where are they now?
Pallid to Thought, and ghaftly! drown'd, all drown'd
In that great Deep, which nothing difembogues!
And, dying, they bequeath'd thee fmall 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 Sun is Dark nefs, and the Stars are Duft.