Haft thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence?
For, or againfi, what wonders he can do!

And will: To ftand blank neuter he difdains.

195

Not on those terms was Time (heaven's ftranger!) sent On his important embaffy to man.

Lorenzo! no: On the long-destin'd hour,

200

From everlasting ages growing ripe,

That memorable hour of wondrous birth,

When the Dread Sire, on emanation bent,
And big with nature, rifing in his might,
Call'd forth creation (for then Time was born),
By Godhead ftreaming through a thousand worlds;
Not on those terms, from the great days of heaven,
From old eternity's myfterious orb,

Was Time cut off, and caft beneath the skies;
The fkies, which watch him in his new abode,
Measuring his motions by revolving fpheres;
That horologe machinery divine.

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210

Hours, days, and months, and years, his children, play, Like numerous wings around him, as he flies:

Or, rather, as unequal plumes, they shape

His ample pinions, fwift as darted flame,
To gain his goal, to reach his antient rest,
And join anew Eternity his fire;

In his immutability to neft,

215

When worlds, that count his circles nou, unhing'd 220 (Fate the loud fignal founding) headlong rufh

To timeless night and chaos, whence they rofe.
Why fpur the fpeedy? Why with levities
New wing thy fhort, fhort day's too rapid flight?

Know'

230

Know'st thou, or what thou dost, or what is done? 225
Man flies from Time, and Time from man; too foon
In fad divorce this double flight must end:
And then, where are we? where, Lorenzo! then
Thy fports? thy pomps ?-I grant thee, in a state
Not unambitious; in the ruffled throud,
Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath.
Has Death his fopperies? Then well may Life
Put on her pluine, and in her rainbow shine.
Ye well-array'd! ye lilies of our land!
Ye lilies male! who neither toil, nor fpin,
(As fifter lilies might) if not fo wife
As Solomon, more fumptuous to the fight!
Ye delicate! who nothing can fupport,
Yourselves moft infupportable! for whom
The winter rofe muft blow, the fun put on
A brighter beam in Leo; filky-foft

Favonius breathe ftill fofter, or be chid;

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240

And other worlds fend odours, fauce, and fong,

And robes, and notions, fram'd in foreign looms!
O ye Lorenzos of our age! who deem

249

One moment unamus'd, a misery

Not made for feeble man! who call aloud
For every bawble drivel'd o'er by sense;
For rattles, and conceits of every caft,

For change of follies, and relays of joy,
To drag your patient through the tedious length
Of a fhort winter's day-fay, fages! fay,
Wit's oracles! fay, dreamers of gay dreams!

250

How

How will you weather an eternal night,

Where fuch expedients fail?

-255

O treacherous Confcience! while fhe feems to fleep On rofe and myrtle, lull'd with fyren fong;

While the feems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the flacken'd rein,

And give us up to licence, unrecall'd,
Unmark'd;fee, from behind her fecret ftand,
The fly informer minutes every fault,

260

And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the grofs A alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band,

265

A watchful foe! the formidable spy,

Liftening, o'erhears the whifpers of our camp:
Our dawning purpofes of heart explores,
And steals our embryos of iniquity.

As all-rapacious ufurers conceal

Their doomsday-book from all-confuming heirs;
Thus, with indulgence moft fevere, she treats
Us fpendthrifts of ineftimable Time;

Unnoted, notes each moment misapply'd;

In leaves more durable than leaves of brafs
Writes our whole hiftory; which Death shall read
In every pale delinquent's private ear;
And Judgement publish; publish to more worlds
Than this; and endlefs age in groans refound.
Lorenzo, fuch that Sleeper in thy breast!
Such is her flumber; and her vengeance such
For flighted counfel; fuch thy future peace!
And think' thou ftill thou canst be wife too foon?

270

275

289

But

But why on Time fo lavifh is my fong?
On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school,
To teach her fons herfelf. Each night we die,
Each morn are born anew: Each day, a life!
And fhall we kill each day? If Trifling kills;
Sure Vice muft butcher. O what heaps of flain
Cry out for vengeance on us! Time deftroy'd

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290

Is Suicide, where more than Blood is spilt.
Time flies, death urges, knells call, heaven invites,
Hell threatens :. All exerts; in effort, all;

More than creation labours!-labours more?
And is there in creation what, amidst
This tumult univerfal, wing'd difpatch,
And ardent energy, fupinely yawns ?—

295

Man fleeps; and Man alone; and Man, whofe fate,'
Fate irreversible, intire, extreme,

Endless, hair-hung, breeze-fhaken, o'er the gulph 300
A moment trembles; drops! and Man, for whom
All elfe is in alarm! Man, the fole caufe

Of this furrounding ftorm! and yet he fleeps,
As the ftorm rock'd to reft.-Throw Years away?
Throw Empires, and be blameless. Moments feize; 305
Heaven's on their wing: A moment we may with,
When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid Day stand still,
Bid him drive back his car, and reimport

The period past, re-give the given hour.
Lorenzo, more than miracles we want;
Lorenzo-O for yesterdays to come!

Such is the language of the man awake;
His ardour fuch, for what oppreffes thee.

310

And

And is his ardour vain, Lorenzo? No

That more than miracle the gods indulge;

315

To-day is Yesterday return'd; return'd

Full power'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn,
And reinftate us on the Rock of peace.

1

Let it not share its predeceffor's fate;

Nor, like its elder fifters, die a fool.

Shall it evaporate in fume? fly off
Fuliginous, and ftain us deeper still?

Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd?

More wretched for the clemencies of heaven ?

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330

Where fhall I find Him? Angels! tell me where. 325 You know him: He is near you: Point him out: Shall I fee glories beaming from his brow? Or trace his footsteps by the rifing flowers? Your golden wings, now hovering o'er him, fhed Protection; now, are waving in applause To that bleft fon of forefight! lord of fate! That awful independent on To-morrow ! Whofe work is done; who triumphs in the Paft; Whofe Yesterdays look backwards with a smile Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly; That common, but opprobrious lot! past hours, If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight, If folly bounds our profpect by the grave,

335

All feeling of futurity benumb'd;

All god-like paffion for eternals quencht;

340

All relish of realities expir'd;

Renounc'd all correspondence with the skies;

Our freedom chain'd; quite wingless our defire;