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-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, (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, Wisdom'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 arrest, No Compofition fets the Pris'ner 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 last Refuge in Defpair!
That Time is mine, O MEAD! to Thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with Eternity.
But ill my Genius answers my Defire;
My fickly Song is mortal, paft thy Cure.
Accept the Will; It dies not with my Strain.
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, 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, Wisdom, Glory, Gain?
(Thefe Heav'n benign in vital Union binds)
And fport we like the Natives of the Bough,
When vernal Suns infpire? 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 Treafon, to the Soul immortal,
Her Foes in Arms, Eternity the Prize?
Will Toys amufe, when Med'cines cannot cure?
When Spirits ebb, when Life's inchanting Scenes
Their Luftre lofe, and leffen in our Sight,
(As Lands, and Cities with their glitt'ring Spires,
To the poor fhatter'd Bark, by fudden Storm
Thrown off to Sea, and foon to perish there)
Will Toys amufe ?-No: Thrones will then be Toys, And Earth and Skies feem Duft upon the Scale.
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 Stream.
From whom thofe 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 A 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! ev'ry Moment Pays.
If nothing more than Purpofe in thy Power;
Thy Purpose firm, is equal to the Deed:
Who does the beft his Circumstance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; Angels could no more.
Our outward A&t, 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 ev'ry Age,
Tho' much, and warm, the Wife have urg'd; the Man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an Hour.
"Tve 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 spoke, as if deputed by Mankind;
So fhould all speak: So Reafon fpeaks in All:
For the foft Whispers of that God in Man,
Why fly to Folly, why to Frenzy fly,
For Recue from the Bleffing we poffefs?
Time, the Supreme !-Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all Eternity can give ;
Pregnant with all, that makes Arch-angels smile.
Who murders Time, He crushes in the Birth
A Pow'r etherial, only not ador'd.
Ah! how unjuft to Nature, and Himself, Is thoughtless, thankless, inconfiftent Man! Like Children babbling Nonfenfe in their Sports, We cenfure Nature for a Span too short; That Span too fhort, we tax as tedious too; Torture Invention, all Expedients tire, To lafh the ling'ring Moments into Speed; And whirl us (happy Riddance!) from ourselves. Art, brainless Art! our furious Charioteer (For Nature's Voice unftifled would recall) Drives headlong tow'rds the Precipice of Death; Death, moft our Dread; Death thus more dreadful made; O what a Riddle of Abfurdity!
Leijure is Pain; takes off our Chariot-wheels.
How heavily we drag the Load of Life!
Bleft Leisure is our Curse; like that of Cain,
It makes us wander; wander Earth around
To fly that Tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groan'd
The World beneath, we groan beneath an Hour.
We cry for Mercy to the next Amusement;
The next Amusement mortgages our Fields;
Slight Inconvenience! Prifons hardly frown,
From hateful Time if Prisons fet us free.
Yet when Death kindly tenders us Relief,
We call him cruel; Years to Moments shrink,
Ages to Years. The Telescope is turn'd.
To Man's falfe Optics (from his Folly falfe)
Time, in advance, behind him hides his Wings,
And feems to creep, decrepit with his Age;
Behold him, when past by; what then is seen,
But his broad Pinions swifter than the Winds?
And all Mankind, in Contradiction strong,
Rueful, aghaft! cry out on his Career.
Leave to thy Foes thefe Errors, and these Ills;
To Nature juft, their Cause and Cure explore.
Not fhort Heaven's Bounty, boundlefs our Expence;
No Niggard, Nature; Men are Prodigals.
We wafte, not use our Time; we breathe, not live.
Time wafted is Existence, us'd is Life.
And bare Exiftence, Man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings, and oppreffes with enormous Weight.
And why? fince Time was giv'n for Ufe, not Waste,
Injoin'd to fly; with Tempeft, Tide, and Stars,
To keep his Speed, nor ever wait for Man;
Time's Ufe was doom'd a Pleasure; Wafte, a Pain;
That Man might feel his Error, if unfeen;
And, feeling, fly to Labour for his Cure;
Not, blund'ring, split on Idleness, for Ease.
Life's Cares are Comforts; fuch by Heav'n defign'd;
He that has none, must make them, or be wretched.
Cares are Employments; and without Employ
The Soul is on a Rack; the Rack of Reft,
To Souls most adverfe; Action all their Joy.
Here, then, the Riddle, mark'd above, unfolds;
Then Time turns Torment, when Man turns a Fool.
Who does the beft 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;
Guard well thy Thought; our Thoughts are heard in
On all-important Time, through ev'ry Age,
Tho' much, and warm, the Wife have urg'd; the Man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an Hour.
"Tve 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 spoke, as if deputed by Mankind;
So fhould all fpeak: So Reafon fpeaks in All:
For the foft Whispers of that God in Man,
Why fly to Folly, why to Frenzy fly,
For Recue from the Bleffing we poffefs?
Time, the Supreme !-Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all Eternity can give ;
Pregnant with all, that makes Arch-angels fmile.
Who murders Time, He crushes in the Birth
A Pow'r etherial, only not ador'd.
Ah! how unjust to Nature, and Himself,
Is thoughtless, thankless, inconfiftent Man!
Like Children babbling Nonfenfe in their Sports,
We cenfure Nature for a Span too short;
That Span too short, we tax as tedious too;
Torture Invention, all Expedients tire,
To lash the ling'ring Moments into Speed ;
And whirl us (happy Riddance!) from ourselves.
Art, brainless Art! our furious Charioteer
(For Nature's Voice unftifled would recall)
Drives headlong tow'rds the Precipice of Death;
Death, moft our Dread; Death thus more dreadful made ;
O what a Riddle of Abfurdity!
Leijure is Pain; takes off our Chariot-wheels.
How heavily we drag the Load of Life!
Bleft Leifure is our Curfe; like that of Cain,
It makes us wander; wander Earth around
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