Of virtuous praife. Death's fubtle feed within,
(Sly, treacherous miner!) working in the dark,
Smil'd at thy well-concerted fcheme, and beckon'd
The worm to riot on that rose fo red,
Unfaded ere it fell; one moment's prey!
Man's forefight is conditionally wife;
Lorenzo! wisdom into folly turns,
Oft, the first inftant, its idea fair
To labouring thought is born. How dim our eye?
The present moment terminates our fight;
Clouds, thick as those on doomsday, drown the next;
We penetrate, we prophefy in vain.
Time is dealt out by particles; and each,
E'er mingled with the streaming fands of life,
By fate's inviolable oath is fworn
Deep filence, "Where eternity begins."
By nature's law, what may be, may be now;
There's no prerogative in human hours.
In human hearts what bolder thought can rife,
Than man's prefumption on to-morrow's dawn?
Where is to-morrow? In another world.
For numbers this is certain; the reverse
Is fure to none; and yet on this perhaps,
This peradventure, infamous for lies,
As on a rock of adamant, we build
Our mountain-hopes; fpin out eternal schemes,
As we the fatal fifters could out-spin,
And, big with life's futurities, expire.
Not e'en Philander had bespoke his shroud; Nor had he caufe; a warning was deny'd:
How many fall as fudden, not as fafe!
As fudden, though for years admonish'd home.
Of human ills the last extreme beware,
Beware, Lorenzo! a flow-fudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate furprize!
Be wife to-day; 'tis madnefs to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is pufh'd out of life.
Procraftination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vaft concerns of an eternal scene.
If not fo frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis fo frequent, this is ftranger 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 reverfion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future felves applauds ;
How excellent that life they near will lead!
Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's vails;
That lodg'd in fate's, to wifdom they confign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone ;
'Tis not in folly, not to fcorn a fool;
And scarce in human wifdom to do more.
All promife is poor dilatory man,
And that through every ftage: when young, indeed, In full content we fometimes nobly reft,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous fons, our fathers were more wife.
At thirty man fufpects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to refolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Refolves; and re-refolves; then dies the fame.
And why? because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal, but themselves;
Themselves, when fome alarming fhock of fate
Strikes through their wounded hearts the fudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where past the shaft, no trace is found:
As from the wing no fcar the sky retains;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Even 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 liften to my midnight fong.
The sprightly lark's fhrill mattin wakes the morn;
Grief's fharpeft thorn hard preffing on my breast,
Iftrive, with wakeful melody, to chear
The fullen gloom, fweet Philomel! like thee,
And call the stars to liften: every star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro' diftant ages: wrapt in fhade, Prisoner of darkness! to the filent 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, Maeonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah cou'd I reach
your
Or his, who made Maeonides our own.
Man too he fung: immortal man I fing:
Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life!
What, now, but immortality can please?
O had he prefs'd his theme, purfu'd the track,
Which opens out of darkness into day!
O had he mounted on his wing of fire,
Soar'd, where I fink, and fung immortal man!
How had it bleft mankind, and rescu'd me?
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