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From bofom, bleeding o'er the facred dead!
Should not each dial strike us as we pass,
Portentous, as the written wall, which struck,
O'er midnight bowls, the proud Affyrian pale,
Ere-while high-flusht, with infolence, and wine?
Like that, the dial speaks; and points to thee,
LORENZO! loth to break thy banquet up:
"O man, thy kingdom is departing from thee;
"And, while it lafts, is emptier than my fhade."
Its filent language fuch: Nor need'ft thou call
Thy Magi, to decypher what it means.
Know, like the Median, fate is in thy walls:

Doft afk, How? Whence? Belshazzar-like, amaz'd §
Man's make inclofes the fure feeds of death;
Life feels the murderer: Ingrate! he thrives
On her own meal, and then his nurse devours.
But, here, LORENZO, the delufion lies;
That folar fhadow, as it measures life,
It life resembles too: Life speeds away
From point to point, tho' feeming to stand still.
The cunning fugitive is fwift by ftealth:

Too fubtle is the movement to be feen;
Yet foon man's hour is up, and we are gone.
Warnings point out our danger; Gnomons, time:
As these are useless when the fun is fet;

So thofe, but when more glorious Reafon fhines.
Reafon fhould judge in all; in reafon's eye,
That fedentary shadow travels hard.

But fuch our gravitation to the wrong,
So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish,

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Tis later with the wife than he's aware;
A Wilmington goes flower than the fun :
And all mankind mistake their time of day;
Ev'n age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly fown
In furrow'd brows. So gentle life's descent,
We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain.
We take fair days in winter, for the spring;
And turn our bleffings into bane. Since oft
Man muft compute that age he cannot feel,
He scarce believes he's older for his years.
Thus, at life's laceft eve, we keep in store
One disappointment fure, to crown the rest;
The disappointment of a promis'd hour.

On This, or fimilar, PHILANDER! thou
Whofe mind was moral, as the preacher's tongue;
And strong, to weild all fcience, worth the name;
How often we talk'd down the fummer's fun,
And cool'd our paffions by the breezy stream!
How often thaw'd and fhorten'd winter's eve,
By conflict kind, that ftruck out latent truth,
Beft found, fo fought; to the Recluse more coy!
Thoughts difintangle paffing o'er the lip;
Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away,
Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song;
Song, fashionably fruitlefs; fuch as ftains
The Fancy, and unhallow'd Passion fires;
Chiming her faints to Cytherea's fane.

Know'ft thou, LORENZO! what a friend contains ?
As bees mixt Nectar draw from fragrant flow'rs,
So men from FRIENDSHIP, Wisdom and Delight;

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Twins ty'd by nature, if they part, they die.
Haft thou no friend to fet thy mind abroach?
Good Senfe will ftagnate. Thoughts fhut up, want air;
And spoil, like bales unopened to the fun.

Had thought been all, sweet speech had been deny'd?
Speech, thought's canal! fpeech, thought's criterion too!
Thought in the mine, may come forth gold, or drofs;
When coin'd in word, we know its real worth.
If fterling, ftore it for thy future ufe ;
"Twill buy thee benefit; perhaps, renown.
Thought, too, deliver'd, is the more poffeft;
Teaching, we learn; and, giving, we retain
The births of intellect; when dumb, forgot.
Speech ventilates our intellectual fire;
Speech burnishes our mental magazine;
Brightens, for ornament; and whets, for ufe.
What numbers, fheath'd in erudition, lie,
Plung'd to the hilts in venerable tomes,

And rufted in; who might have borne an edge,
And play'd a sprightly beam, if born to speech;
If born bleft heirs of half their mother's tongue!
'Tis thought's exchange, which, like th' alternate pufh
Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned fcum,
And defecates the ftudents standing pool.

In Contemplation is his proud refource?
'Tis poor, as proud, by Converfe unfuftain'd.
Rude thought runs wild in Contemplation's field;
Converfe, the menage, breaks it to the bit
Of due restraint; and emulation's fpur
Gives graceful energy, by rivals aw'd.

'Tis converfe qualifies for folitude;

As exercife, for falutary reft.

By that untutor'd, Contemplation raves;
And Nature's fool, by Wisdom's is outdone.

Wisdom, tho' richer than Peruvian mines,
And fweeter than the sweet ambrofial hive,
What is fhe, but the means of Happiness?
That unobtain'd, than folly more a fool;
A melancholy fool, without her bells.
Friendship, the means of wisdom, richly gives
The precious end, which makes our wisdom wife.
Nature, in zeal for human amity,

Denies, or damps, an undivided joy.
Joy is an import; joy is an exchange;
Joy flies monopolifts: It calls for Two;
Rich fruit! heav'n-planted! never pluckt by One.
Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give
To facial man true relish of himself.
Full on ourselves defcending in a line
Pleasure's bright beam, is feeble in delight:
Delight intense, is taken by rebound;
Reverberated pleasures fire the breast.
Celestial Happiness, whene'er fhe ftoops
To vifit earth, one shrine the goddess finds,
And one alone to make her sweet amends
For abfent heav'n-the bofom of a friend
Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft,
Each other's pillow to repofe divine.
Beware the counterfeit: In Paffion's flame

Hearts

Hearts melt, but melt like ice, foon harder froze,
True love ftrikes root in Reafon; paffion's foe:
Virtue alone entenders us for life:

I

wrong

her much-entenders us for ever:

Of Friendship's faireft fruits, the fruit moft fair
Is Virtue kindling at a rival fire,

And, emulously, rapid in her race.

O the foft enmity! endearing ftrife!
This carries friendship to her noon-tide point,
And gives the rivet of eternity.

From Friendship, which outlives my former themes, Glorious furvivor of old Time, and Death!

From Friendship, thus, that flow'r of heav'nly feed,
The wife extract earth's moft Hyblean blifs,
Superior wisdom, crown'd with fmiling joy.

But for whom bloffoms this Elyfian flower?
Abroad They find, who cherish it at Home.
LORENZO! pardon what my love extorts,
An honeft love, and not afraid to frown.
Tho' choice of follies faften on the Great,
None clings more obftinate, than fancy fond
That facred friendship is their easy prey;
Caught by the wafture of a golden lure,
Or fafcination of a high-born fmile.

Their fmiles, the Great, and the Coquet, throw out
For Others hearts, tenacious of their Own ;

And we no less of ours, when fuch the bait.
Ye fortune's cofferers! Ye pow'rs of wealth!
Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope!
As well mere man an angel might beget.

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