Not e'en Philander has bespoke his shroud, Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears And that through ev'ry stage: when young, indeed, At fifty, chides his infamous delay, And why? because he thinks himself immortal. 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 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 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? Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo! 'Tis confest: 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, |