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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 destroy'd
Is Suicide, where more than Blood is spilt.
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 universal, wing'd dispatch,
And ardent energy, supinely yawns?-
Man sleeps; and Man alone; and Man, whose fate,
Fate irreversible, intire, extreme,
Endless, hair-hung, breeze shaken, o'er the gulph
A moment trembles; drops! and Man, for whom
All else is in alarm! Man, the sole cause
Of this surrounding storm! and yet he sleeps,
As the storm rock'd to rest.-Throw Fears away ?
Throw Empires, and be blameless. Moments seize;
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, and reimport
This period past, regive the given hour.
Lorenzo, more than miracles we want;
Lorenzo-O for yesterday to come!

Such is the language of the man awake;
His ardour such, 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,

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And reinstate us on the Rock of peace.
Let it not share its predecessor's fate;
Nor, like its elder sisters, die a fool.
Shall it evaporate in fume? Fly off
Fuliginous, and stain us deeper still ?
Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour’d?
More wretched for the clemencies of heav'n?

Where shall I find Him? Angels! tell me where,
You know him: He is near you: Point him out:
Shall I see glories beaming from his brow?
Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers ?
Your golden wings, now hov'ring o'er him, shed
Protection ; now, are waving in applause
To that blest son of foresight! lord of fate!
That awful independent on To-morrow !
Whose work is done ; who triumphs in the Past;
Whose Yesterdays look backwards with a smile ;
Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly;
That common, but opprobrious lot! past hours,
If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight,
If folly bounds our prospect by the grave,
All feeling of futurity benumb'd;
All god-like passion for eternals quencht;
All relish of realities expir'd;
Renounc'd all correspondence with the skies;
Our freedom chain'd ; quite wingless our desire ;
In sense dark-prison'd all that ought to soar ;
Prone to the centre; crawling in the dust;
Dismounted ev'ry great and glorious aim
Embruted ev'ry faculty divine;

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Whose yesterdays look backward with a smile : ( boylike the Parthian round him as theyfly

Pagr. 28

London: Published Aug 16.797, by Vernor& Hood & the other Proprietors.

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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 distant skies, and triumph there
On thrones, which shall not mourn their masterschang’d,
Tho' we from Earth; Ethereal, that they fell.
Such veneration due, O man, to man.

Who venerate themselves, the world despise,
For what, gay friend ! is this escutcheon'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 sigh; and while
We sigh, we sink; 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 sure earnest of his final blow. Those hours that lately smil'd, where are they now? Pallid to thought, and ghastly ! drown’d, all drown'd In that great deep, which nothing disembogues ! And, dying, they bequeath'd thee small renown. The rest 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 darkness, and the stars are dust.

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours; And ask them, what report they bore to heaven;

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