Puslapio vaizdai
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Not e'en Philander has bespoke his shroud,
Nor had he cause; a warning was denied :
How many fall as sudden, not as safe;
As sudden, though for years admonish'd home!
Of human ills the last extreme beware;
Beware, Lorenzo! a slow sudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate surprise!
Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer:
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

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 shall not drivel, and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least their own; their future selves applauds=
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodged in Fate's, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose they postpone:
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool;
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that through ev'ry stage: when young, indeed,
In full content we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;

At fifty, chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.

And why? because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal but themselves:
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes thro' theirwounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soonclose; where pass'd the shaft no trace is found,
As from the wing no scar the sky retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
E'en with the tender tear, which nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave,
Can I forget Philander? that were strange!
O my full heart!-But should I give it vent,
The longest night, though longer far, would fail,
And the lark listen to my midnight song.

The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn; Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast, I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel! like thee, And call the stars to listen: ev'ry star Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay. Yet be not vain; there are who thine excel, And charm through distant ages. Wrapt in shade, Pris'ner of darkness! to the silent hours How often I repeat their rage divine, To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe! I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire. Dark though not blind, like thee, Mæonides! Or, Milton, thee! ah, could I reach your strain! Or his who made Mæonides our own. Man, too, he sung; immortal man I sing. Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life; What now but immortality can please?

O had he pressed his theme, pursued the track
Which opens out of darkness into day!
O had he, mounted on his wing of fire,
Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man,
How had it blest mankind, and rescued me!

THE COMPLAINT.

NIGHT II.

ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.

To the Right Honourable the Earl of Wilmington. WHEN the cock crew he wept,-smote by that Eye Which looks on me, on all; that Pow'r who bids This midnight sentinel, with clarion shrill (Emblem of that which shall awake the dead) Rouse souls 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 sees the light: He that is born is listed: life is war; Eternal war with woe: who bears it best Deserves it least. 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 dust. He thus, though dead, May still befriend-What themes? Time's won

drous price,

Death, friendship, and Philander's final scene! So I could touch these themes as might obtain Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite disengaged,

The good deed would delight me; half impress
On my dark cloud an Iris, and from grief Good
Call glory. Dost thou mourn Philander's fate?
I know thou say'st it; says thy life the same?
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 sacred; more a load
Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise.onl
What moment granted man without account?
What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid!
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.cs
Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door.
Insidious Death! should his strong hand arrest
No composition sets the pris'ner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain

Fast binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear.

How late I shudder'd on the brink! how late Life call'd for her last refuge in despair!ok That time is mine, O Mead! to thee I owe Fain would I pay thee with eternity; But ill my genius answers my desire: My sickly song is mortal, past thy cure: mel Accept the will; - that dies not with my strain.

For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo? Not For Esculapian, but for moral aid. Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon. Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment, but in purchase of its worth; And what is worth, ask death-beds; they can tell. Part with it as with life, reluctant; hig With holy hope of nobler time to come : Time higher aim'd, still nearer the great mark Of men and angels; virtue more divine.bod

Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain?
(These Heav'n benign in vital union binds)
And sport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal suns inspire? Amusement reigns
Man's great demand: to trifie is to live :
And is it then a trifle, too, to die?

Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo! 'Tis confest:
What, if for once, I preach thee quite awake?
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 amuse when med'cines cannot cure?
When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes
Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight,
As lands and cities with their glitt'ring spires,
To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm
Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there,
Will toys amuse? No; thrones will then be toys,
And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale.

Redeem we time?-Its loss we dearly buy, What pleads Lorenzo for his high-prized sports? He pleads time's num'rous blanks; he loudly plead The straw-like trifles on life's common-stream. From whom those flanks and trifles but from thee? No blank, no trifle, Nature made, or meant. Virtue, or purposed 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 blest art of turning all to gold : This the good heart's prerogative to raise A royal tribute from the poorest hours; Immense revenue! ev'ry moment pays. If nothing more than purpose in thy pow'r, Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed; Who does the best his circumstance allows,

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