Can I forget Philander? That were strange?
O my
full heart!- -But fhould 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 breaft,
1 ftrive, with wakeful melody, to cheer
The fullen gloom sweet philomel! like thee,
And call the ftars 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 shade,
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 could I reach your strain !
Or his, who made Maeonides our own.
Man too he fung: immortal man I fing:
Oft burft 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 blest mankind, and refcu'd me?
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 fhall awake the, dead,
Rouze fouls from flumber, into thoughts of heaven.
Shall I tco 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 they need: themes too, the genuine growth
Of dear Philander's duft. He, thus, tho' dead,
May ftill befriend.-What themes? Time's wond'rous
Death, friendship, and Philander's final fcene.
So could I touch these 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: Says thy life the fame ?
He mourns the dead who lives as they defire.
Where is that thrift, that avarice of TIME,
(0 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 ftrong hand arreft,
No compofition fets the prifoner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain
Fast 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 despair!
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 disease, 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, sparing; 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?
(These heaven benign in vital union binds)
And fport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal funs infpire? Amusement reigns,
Man's great demand: to trifle is to live :
And is it then a trifle, too, to die?
Thou fay't 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 treafon to the soul immortal,
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize?
Will toys amufe, when med'cines cannot cure?
When fpirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes
Their luftre lofe, and leffen in our fight,
(As lands, and cities with their glittering fpires,
To the poor fhatter'd bark, by fudden storm
Thrown off to fea, and foon to perish there)
Will toys amufe? No: thrones will then be toys,
And earth and skies seem duft upon the fcale.
Redeem we time?its lofs we dearly buy.
What pleads Lorenzo for his high priz'd fports?
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 29 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 pooreft hours.
Immense 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 circumstance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.
Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint;
'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer;
[ven.
Guard well thy thought; our thoughts are heard in hea
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,
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