On TIME, DEATH, FRIENDSHIP.
HEN the cock crew, he wept," smote by
that eye Which looks on me, on all: that Pow'r who bids This midnight-centinel, with clarion thrill, Emblem of that which shall awake the dead, Rouse fouls 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 wo: who bears it best, Deserves it leaft. 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, May still befriend. - What themes? Time's wondrous
Death, Friendship, and PHILANDER'S final scene:
Themes meet for man! and meet at ev'ry hour,
But most at this, at midnight, ever elad
In Death's own fables; filent as his realms;
And prone to weep; profufe of dewy tears
O'er Nature, in her temporary tomb.
So could I touch these themes, as might obtain
Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite difengag'd,
The good deed would delight me; half impress
On my dark cloud an Iris; and from grief
Call glory. Dost thou mourn PHILANDER's fate??
I know thou say'st it; says thy life the fame?
He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire.
Where is that thrift, that avarice of TIME,
(O glorious avarice!), thought 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 years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid?
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.
Haste, haste, he lyes in wait, he's at the door.
Infidious Death! should his strong hand arrest,
No composition sets the prisoner free:
Eternity's inexorable chain
Fast binds; and vengeance claims the full arrear.
How late I hadder'd on the brink! how late
Life call'd for her last refuge in defpair!
That time is mine, O MEAD! to thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with eternity:
But ill my genius answers my defire,
My fickly fong is mortal, past thy cure:
Accept the will; it dies not with my strain.
For what calls thy disease, LORENZO? not
For Esculapian, but for moral aid.
Thou thinkit it folly to be wile too foon.
Youth is not rich in time; it may be, poor:
Part with it as with money, fparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth:
And what its worth, ask deathbeds, 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?
(These heaven benign in vital union binds);
And sport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal fuus inspire ? Amusement reigns
Man's great demand: to trifle is to live :
And is it then a trifle, too, to die?
Thon say'st I preach; LORENZO! 'tis confess'd.
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle?
Is it not treason to the foul immortal,
Hier foes in arms, eternity the prize?
Will toys amuse, when medicines cannot cure?
When fpirits ebb, when life's inchanting scenes
Their luftre lose, and lessen in our fight,
(As lands, and cities with their glitt'ring spires,
To the poor thatter'd bark, by fudden ftorim.
Thrown off to fea, and foon to perish there),
Will toys amufe ?-No: thrones will then be toys,
And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale.
Redeem we time? - its lofs we dearly buy.
What pleads LORENZO for his high-priz'd sports
He pleads Time's numerous blanks; he loudly pleads
The straw-like trifles on life's common ftream.
From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee ?
No blank, or trifle, Nature made, or meant.
Virtue, or purpos'd virtue, still 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 bless'd art of turning all to gold;
This, the good heart's prerogative to raife
A royal tribute from the poorest hours:
Immense revenue ! every moment pays.
If nothing more than purpose in thy power,
Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed:
Who does the best his circumlance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint;
'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer:
Guard well thy thoughts; our thoughts are heard in
On all-important Time, through every age, Though much, and warm, the wife have urg'd; the Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour. [man "I've lost a day," the prince ince who nobly cry'd, Had been an emperor without his crown; Of Rome? fay, rather, lord of human race; He spoke, as if deputed by mankind.. So should all speak: fo Reason Ipeaks in all. From the foft whispers of that god in man, Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly, For rescue from the bleffings we poffefs? Time, the fupreme! Time is eternity';
Pregnant with all eternity can give;
Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile;
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, thankless, inconfiftent man?
Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,
We cenfire Nature for a span too short;
That span too short, we tax as tedious too,
Torture invention, all expedients tire,
To lash the ling'ring moments into speed,
And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourselves.
Art, brainless Art! our furious charioteer
(For Nature's voice unstifled would recall)
Drives headlong towards the precipice of death;
Death, most our dread; death thus more dreadful
O what a riddle of absurdity!
[made.
Leisure is pain; takes off our chariot-wheels;
How heavily we drag the load of life!
Bless'd leifure is our curse; like that of Cain
It makes us wander; wander earth around-
To fly that tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groan'd
The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour
We cry for mercy to the next amusement;.
The next amusement mortgages our fields;
Slight inconvenience! prifons hardly frown,
From hateful Time if prifons set us free.
Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief,
We call him cruel; years to moments shrink,
Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd.
To man's falfe optics (from his folly false)
Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings,
And feems to creep, decrepit with his age:
Behold him, when pass'd by; what then is seen
But his broad pinions swifter than the winds?-
And all mankind, in contradiction strong,
Rueful, aghast! cry out at his career.
Leave to thy foes these errors, and these ills;
To nature just, their cause and cure explore.
Not short heaven's bounty, boundless our expenfe;
No niggard, nature; men are prodigals..
As bold Alphonfus threaten'd in his pride,.
We throw away our funs, as inade for sport,
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