Like bofom friendships to refentment four'd,
With rage envenom'd rise against our peace.
Beware what earth calls happiness; beware
All joys, but joys that never can expire.
Who builds on lefs than an immortal base,
Fond as he seems, condemns his joys to death.

Mine dy'd with thee, PHILANDER! thy laft figh
Diffolv'd the charm; the difinchanted earth
Loft all her luftre. Where, her glitt'ring towers?
Her golden mountains, where? all darken'd down
To naked waste; a dreary vale of tears:

The great magician's dead! Thou poor, pale piece
Of out-caft earth, in darkness! what a change
From yesterday! Thy darling hope fo near,
(Long-labour'd prize!) O how ambition flush'd
Thy glowing cheek! Ambition truly great,
Of virtuous praife. Death's fubtle feed within,
(Sly, treach'rous miner!) working in the dark,
Smil'd at thy well-concerted scheme, and beckon'd
The worm to riot on that rose so red,
Unfaded ere it fell; one moment's prey!

Man's forefight is conditionally wife;
LORENZO! wisdom into folly turns

Oft, the firft inftant, its idea fair

To labouring thought is born. How dim our eye!
The present moment terminates our fight;

Clouds, thick as thofe on doomsday, drown the next; We penetrate, we prophefy in vain.

Time is dealt out by particles; and each,

Ere mingled with the ftreaming fands of life,

By

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 reverfe
Is fure to none; and yet on this perhaps,
This peradventure, infamous for lyes,
As on a rock of adamant we build

Our mountain hopes; fpin out eternal fchemes,
As we the fatal fifters could out-spin,
And, big with life's futurities, expire.

Not ev'n PHILANDER had bespoke his shroud.
Nor had he cause; a warning was deny'd:
How many fall as fudden, not as fafe!
As fudden, tho' for years admonisht home.
Of human ills the laft extreme beware,
Beware, LORENZO! a flow fudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate furprize!
Be wife to-day; 'tis madness 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 feals, 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 ftill.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears

The

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 selves applauds;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd in fate's, to wisdom thoy confign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they poftpone ;
"Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;

And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that thro' ev'ry ftage: When young, indeed,
In fall content we, fometimes, nobly reft,
Un anxious 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 purpofe 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 shock of fate
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the fudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where past the fhaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains ;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel ;

So

So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which nature fheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.
Can I forget PHILANDER? That were ftrange!
O my full heart!- -But fhould I give it vent,
The longest night, tho' longer far, would fail,
And the lark liften to my midnight fong.

The fpritely lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn;
Grief's fharpeft thorn hard preffing on my breaft,
I ftrive, with wakeful melody, to chear
The fullen gloom, sweet Philomel like Thee,
And call the ftars to liften: Ev'ry star]
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.

Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro' distant ages: Wrapt in shade,
Pris'ner of darkness! to the filent hours,
How often I repeat their rage divine,

To lull my griefs, and fteal my heart from woe!
I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire.
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah could I reach your strain t
Or His, who made Mæonides our Own.

Man too He fung: Immortal man I fing;
Oft burfts my fong 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 rescu'd me?

NIGHT the SECOND.

ON

TIME, DEATH, FRIENDSHIP.