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 presumption on to-morrow's dawn?
Where is to-morrow? In another world.
For numbers this is certain; the reverse
Is fure to none; and yet on this perhaps,
This peradventure, infamous for lies,
As on a rock of adamant, we build
Our mountain hopes; spin out eternal schemes,
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 caufe; a warning was deny'd:
How many fall as fudden, not as fafe!
As fudden, though for years admonish'd 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 push'd out of life.
Procraftination is the thief of time;
Year after year it fteals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not fo frequent, would not This be strange?
That 'tis fo frequent, This is stranger still.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born.
pay themselves the compliment to think They one day fhall not drivel: and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future felves applaud; 405
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 they confign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone;
'Tis not in folly, not to fcorn a fool;
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promife is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage: when young, indeed,
In full content we, fometimes, nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only with,
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 purpose to resolve ;
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 Themfelves;
Themselves, when fome alarming shock of fate 425
Strikes through their wounded hearts the fudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon clofe; where, past the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no fear the sky retains ;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thoughts of death.
Ev'n with the tender tear which nature sheds
O'er thofe we love, we drop it in their grave.
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 song.
The fpritely lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn;
Grief's fharpeft thorn hard preffing on my breast,
I ftrive, with wakeful melody, to chear
The fullen gloom, fweet Philomel! like Thee,
And call the ftars to liften: every ftar
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm through distant ages: wrapt in fhade, 445 Prifoner of darknefs! 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, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah, could I reach your strain !
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, purfued 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 bleft mankind, and refcued me!
RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.
"WHEN the Cock crew, he wept-finote by that
Which looks on me, on all: That power, who bids
This midnight centinel, with clarion fhrill,
Emblem of that which fhall awake the dead,
Roufe fouls from flumber, into thoughts of heaven. 5
Shall I too 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 wee. Who bears it beft,
Deferves it leaft.-On other themes I'll dwell.
Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee,
And thine, on themes may profit; profit there,
Where most thy need. Themes, too, the genuine growth
Of dear Philander's duft. He thus, though dead, 15
May ftill befriend-What themes? Time's wondrous
Death, Friendship, and Philander's final scene.
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 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 thirst, 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 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 last 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.
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