Puslapio vaizdai
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Eternal War with Wce. Who bears it beft,
Deferves it leaft. On other Themes I'll dwell.
LORENZO let me turn my thoughts on Thee,
And Thire, on Themes may profit; profit there,
Where moft thy need, Themes, too, the genuine growth
Of dear PHILANDER'S Duft. He, thus, tho' dead
May ftill befriend-What Themes? Times wondrous
Death, Friendship, and Philander's final Scene. [Price,

So could I touch thefe Themes, as might obtain
Thine Ear? nor leave thy Heart quite difengag'd,
The good Deed would delight me; half-imprefs
On my dark Cloud an Iris; and from Grief,
Call Glory.-Doft thou mourn PHILANDER's fate?
I know thou fay'ft it; fays thy Life the fame?
He mourns the Dead,
Where is that Thrift,

who lives as they defire.

that Avarice of TIME,

(O glorious Avarice!) thought of Death infpires,
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 fquander'd, Wifdom's debt unpaid?
Our Wealth in Days all due to that discharge.
Hafte, hafte, He lies in wait, He's at the door,
Infidious Death! fhould his strong hand arreft,
No compofition fets the Pris'ner free.

Eternity's inexorable chain

Faft binds; and Vengeance claims the fuli Arrear.

How

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 answers my Defire,
My fickly Song is mortal, paft thy Cure.
Accept the Will; It 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,
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, ftill 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 sport 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'ft I preach, LORENZO! 'Tis confeft. What, if for once, I preach thee quite awake?

Who

Who wants Amusement 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,
To the poor shatter'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 numerous Blanks; he loudly pleads The ftraw-like Trifles on Life's common Stream. From whom those Blanks and Trifles, but from Thee? No Blank, no Trifle, Nature made, or meant. Virtue, or purpos'd Virtue, ftill be Thine; This cancels thy Complaint at once; This leaves In At no Trifie, 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 pooreft Hours. Immenfe Revenue! ev'ry Moment Pays. If nothing more than Purpofe in thy Power; Thy Purpose firm, is equal to the Deed : Who does the best his Circumstance allows,

Does

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 Thought; our Thoughts are heard in

On all-important Time, through every Age,

Heaven.

Tho' much, and warm, the Wife have urg'd; the Man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an Hour.
"I've loft a Day-The Prince who nobly cry'd,
Had been an Emperor without his Crown;
Of Rome! fay, rather, Lord of human Race;
He fpoke, as if deputed by Mankind;
So, fhould all speak: So Reafon fpeaks in All:
For the foft Whispers of that God in Man,
Why fly to Folly, why to Frenzy fly,
For Refcue from the Bleffing we poffefs?
Time, the Supreme!-Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all Eternity can give;

Pregnant with all, that makes Arch-angels smile.
Who murders Time, He crushes in the Birth
A Pow'r etherial, only not ador'd.

Ah! how unjust to Nature, and Himself,
Is thoughtless, thankless, 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, brainlefs Art, our furious Charioteer
(For Nature's Voice unftifled would recall)
Drives headlong tow'rds the Precipice of Death;
Death, most our Dread; Death thus more dreadful made;

O what a Riddle of Abfurdity!

Leifure is Pain; takes off our Chariot-wheels.
How heavily we drag the Load of Life!
Bleft Leisure is our Curfe; 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! Prisons hardly frown,
From hateful Time if Prisons 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 Optics (from his Folly falfe)
Time, in Advance, behind him hides his Wings,
And feems to creep, decrepit 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 strong,
Rueful, aghaft! cry out on his Career.

Leave to thy Foes these Errors, and these Ills To Nature juft, their Caufe and Cure explore.

Not

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