TIME, DEATH, FRIENDSHIP...
WHEN the Cock crew, he wept❞—Smote by that Eye,,
Which looks on me, on All: That Pow'r, who bida.
This Midnight Centinel, with Clarion fhrill;
Emblem of that which fhall awake the Dead,
Rouse Souls from Slumber, into Thoughts of Heavens. Shall I too weep? Where then is Fortitude?:
And Fortitude abandon'd, where is Man?
I know the Terms on which he sees the Light;;
He that is born, is lifted; Life is War r;
Eternal War with Woe. Who bears it beft,
Deferves it least.-
LORENZO! let me turn my Thoughts on'
-On other Themes I'll dwell..
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? Time's wondrous Prices
Death, Friendship, and PHILANDER's final fcene..
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-impress
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 inspires,
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 strong Hand arreft,
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 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 e;
My fickly Song is mortal, paft thy Cure.
Accept the Will;--That dies not with my Strain.
For what calls thy Difeafe, LORENZO? Not
For Efculapian, but for Moral Aid.
Thou think't it Folly to be wife too soon.
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 sport 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 enchanting 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 num'rous 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 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! ev'ry Moment Pays.
If nothing more than Purpose in thy Power;
Thy Purpose firm, is equal to the Deed:
Who does the beft 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 în
On all important Time, thro' ev'ry Age, [Heaven.
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? Say, rather, Lord of human Race:
He fpoke, as if deputed by Mankind.
So fhould all speak: So Reafon fpeaks in All;
From the foft Whispers of that God in Man,
Why fly to Folly, why to Phrensy fly,
For Rescue from the Blefings we poffefs?
Time, the Supreme !-Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all Eternity can give;
Pregnant with all, that makes Archangels fmile.
Who murders Time, He crushes in the Birth
A Pow'r ethereal, only not ador'd.
Ah! how unjust to Nature, and Himself,
Is thoughtlefs, thanklefs, inconfiftent Man!
Like Children babbling Nonsense 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 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, most our Dread; Death thus more dreadful made;
O what a Riddle of Abfurdity!
Leifure is Pain; takes off our Chariot-wheels ;
How heavily we drag the Load of Life!
Bleft Leisure is our Curfe; 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 fhrink,
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 paft by; what then is feen,
But his broad Pinions fwifter than the Winds?
And all Mankind, in Contradiction strong,
Rueful, aghaft! cry out on his Career.
Leave to thy Foes thefe Errors, and thefe Ills;
To Nature juft, their Cause and Cure explore.
Not fhort Heav'n's Rounty, boundless 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 Existence, Man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings, and oppreffes with enormous Weight.
And why? fince Time was giv'n for Use, 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; Waste, a Pain;
That Man might feel his Error, if unseen :
|