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THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT THE SECOND.

'WHEN the cock crew, he wept,'-fmote by that eye,
Which looks on me, on all: that pow'r, who bids
This midnight centinel, with clarion fhrill,

Emblem of that which shall awake the dead,
Rouze fouls from flumber, into thoughts of heaven.
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 woe: who bears it beft,
Deferves 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 duft. He, thus, tho' dead,
May ftill befriend.-What themes? Times wondrous
price,

Death, friendship, and Philander's final scene.

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.-Dost thou mourn Philander's fate?

I know thou fay'ft it: Says thy life the fame?
He mourns the dead, who lives as they defire.
Where is that thrift, 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 lyes in wait, he's at the door,
Infidious death! fhould his ftrong hand arrest,
No compofition fets the prifoner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain

Faft binds; and vengeance claims the full arrear.
How late I fhudder'd on the brink! how late
Life call'd for her laft refuge in defpair!

That time is mine, O Mead! to thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with eternity:
But ill my genius anfwers my defire;
My fickly fong is mortal, paft thy cure.
Accept the will;-that dies not with my ftrain.
For what calls thy difeafe, Lorenzo? Not
For Efculapian, but for moral aid.

Thou think'ft it folly to be wife 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, 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, wifdom, glory, gain?
(These heaven benign in vital union binds)
And sport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal funs inspire? 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 wants amusement in the flame of battle?
Is it not treason to the foul 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 fight,
(As lands, and cities with their glittering spires,
To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm
Thrown off to fea, and foon to perish there)
Will toys amufe? No: thrones will then be toys,
And earth and fkies feem duft upon the fcale.
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 ftream.
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 act no trifle, 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 poorest hours.
Immenfe 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 circumftance 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 thought; our thoughts are heard in heaven.

On all-important time, through every age,

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; fo reafon fpeaks in all;
From 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 fupreme!-time is eternity;
Pregnant with all eternity can give;

Pregnant with all that makes archangels fmile.
Who murders time, he crushes in the birth

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