In fenfe dark-prifon'd all that ought to foar;
Prone to the centre; crawling in the duft;
Difmounted every great and glorious aim;
Embruted every faculty divine;
Heart-bury'd in the rubbish of the world.
The world, that gulph of fouls, immortal souls,
Souls elevate, angelic, wing`d with fire
To reach the distant skies, and triumph there
On thrones, which fhall not mourn their mafters chang'd;
Though we from Earth; Ethereal, they that fell.
Such veneration due, O man, to man.
Who venerate themselves, the world defpife.
For what, gay friend! is this efcutcheon'd world,
Which hangs out Death in one eternal night;
A night, that glooms us in the noon-tide ray,
And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the fhroud?
Life's little stage is a small eminence,
Inch-high the grave above; that home of man,
Where dwells the multitude: We gaze around;
We read their monuments; we figh; and while
We figh, we fink; and are what we deplor'd;
Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot!
Is death at diftance? No: He has been on thee, And given fure earneft of his final blow. Those hours that lately fmil'd, where are they now? Pallid to thought, and ghaftly! drown'd, all drown'd In that great deep, which nothing difembogues! And, dying, they bequeath'd thee fmall renown. The reft are on the wing: How fleet their flight! Already has the fatal train took fire;
A moment, and the world 's blown up to thee;
The fun is darknefs, and the stars are duft.
'Tis greatly wife to talk with our past hours; And ask them, what report they bore to heaven;
And how they might have borne more welcome news. Their answers form what men Experience call;
If Wisdom's friend, her beft; if not, worst foe. O reconcile them! Kind Experience cries, "There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs; "The more our joy, the more we know it vain; "And by fuccefs are tutor'd to despair.”
Nor is it only thus, but must be fo.
Who knows not this, though grey, is still a child.
Loofe then from earth the grasp of fond defire,
Weigh anchor, and fome happier clime explore.
Art thou fo moor'd thou canst not difengage,
Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future.scenes?
Since, by Life's paffing breath, blown up from earth,
Light, as the fummer's duft, we take in air
A moment's giddy flight, and fall again;
Join the dull mafs, increase the trodden foil,
And fleep, till earth herself shall be no more;
Since then (as emmets, their fmall world o'erthrown)
We, fore amaz'd, from out earth's ruins crawl,
And rife to fate extreme of foul or fair,
As man's own choice (controuler of the skies!)
As man's defpotic will, perhaps one hour,
(O how omnipotent is time!) decrees;
Should not each warning give a strong alarm?
Warning, far less than that of bosom torn
From bofom, bleeding o'er the facred dead!
Should not each dial strike us as we pass,
Portentous, as the written wall, which ftruck,
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'st thou call
Thy Magi, to decypher what it means.
Know, like the Median, fate is in thy walls :
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Doft afk, How? Whence? Belshazzar-like, amaz’d?
Man's make inclofes the fure feeds of death;
Life feeds 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 refembles too: life fpeeds away
From point to point, though 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 thefe are ufelefs when the fun is fet:
So thofe, but when more glorious Reafon fhines.
Reafon fhould judge in all; in reason's eye,
That fedentary fhadow travels hard.
But fuch our gravitation to the wrong,
So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish,
'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. To 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 blessings into bane.
Man must compute that age he cannot feel,
He scarce believes he 's older for his years.
Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in store
One disappointment fure, to crown the rest;
The difappointment of a promis'd hour.
On This, or fimilar, Philander! thou
Whose mind was moral, as the preacher's tongue;
And strong, to wield all science, worth the name;
How often we talk'd down the fummer's fun,
And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream!
How often thaw'd and fhorten'd winter's eve,
By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth,
Beft found, fo fought; to the Reclufe more coy!
Thoughts difentangle paffing o'er the lip;
Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away,
Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song;
Song, fafhionably fruitlefs; fuch as stains
The Fancy, and unhallow'd Passion fires;
Chiming her faints to Cytherea's fane.
Know't thou, Lorenzo! what a friend contains? As bees mixt Nectar draw from fragrant flowers, So men from Friendship, Wisdom and Delight ;
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 unopen'd 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; 470
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
Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned fcum,
And defecates the student's standing pool.
In Contemplation is his proud refource?
'Tis poor, as proud, by Converfe unfuftain'd.
Rude thought runs wild in Contemplation's field; 490 Converfe, the menage, breaks it to the bit
Of due restraint; and emulation's fpur
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