Abbildungen der Seite
[ocr errors]




As the occasion of this poem was real, not fictitious;
so the method pursued in it was rather imposed,
by what spontaneously arose in the author's mind
on that occasion, than meditated or designed; which
will appear very probable from the nature of it.
For it differs from the common mode of poetry, But from its loss.
which is, from long narrations to draw short morals. Is wise in man.
Here, on the contrary, the narrative is short, and I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
the morality arising from it makes the bulk of the It is the knell of my departed hours:

poem. The reason of it is, that the facts men-
tioned did naturally pour these moral reflections
on the thought of the writer.





This double night, transmit one pitying ray,
To lighten, and to cheer. O lead my mind,
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe.)
Lead it through various scenes of life and death,
And from each scene, the noblest truths inspire.
Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song;
Teach my best reason, reason; my best will
Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear:
Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd
On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time

To give it then a tongue,
As if an angel spoke,

Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the signal that demands dispatch;
How much is to be done? My hopes and fears
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-On what? a fathomless abyss!
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
How passing wonder He, who made him such!
Who center'd in our make such strange extremes !
From different natures marvellously mixt,
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt!
Though sullied and dishonor'd, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!

TIR'D Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes;
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose,
I wake: How happy they, who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams

Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought, Helpless immortal! insect infinite!
From wave to wave of fancied misery,
At random drove, her helm of reason lost.
Though now restor'd, 'tis only change of pain,
(A bitter change!) severer for severe.
The Day too short for my distress; and Night,
E'en in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is sun-shine to the color of my fate.

A worm! a god!-I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost! at home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd, aghast,
And wondering at her own: How Reason reels!
O what a miracle to man is man,
Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread!
Alternately transported, and alarm'd!

What can preserve my life? or what destroy?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound!
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds;
Creation sleeps. "Tis, as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd;
Fate drop the curtain; I can lose no more.

"Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof:
While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread,
What though my soul fantastic measures trod
O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom
Of pathless woods; or, down the craggy steep
Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool;
Or scal'd the cliff; or danc'd on hollow winds,
With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain?
Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature
Of subtler essence than the trodden clod;
Active, aërial, towering, unconfin'd,
Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall.

Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins
From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought
To reason, and on reason build resolve,
(That column of true majesty in man,)

Assist me I will thank you in the grave;


The grave, your kingdom: there this frame shall fall E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal:

A victim sacred to your dreary shrine.
But what are ye?—

E'en silent night proclaims eternal day.

Thou, who didst put to flight

Primeval Silence, when the morning stars,
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball!

For human weal, Heaven husbands all events;
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.
Why then their loss deplore, that are not lost?
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around,
In infidel distress? Are angels there?
Slumbers, rak'd up in dust, ethereal fire?

O thou, whose word from solid darkness struck
That spark, the Sun; strike wisdom from my soul;
My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure,
As misers to their gold, while others rest.

They live! they greatly live a life on Earth
Unkindled, unconceiv'd; and from an eye
Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall

Through this opaque of Nature, and of soul,


2 V 2

On me, more justly number'd with the dead. Could you, so rich in rapture, fear an end,
This is the desert, this the solitude :

That ghastly thought would drink up all your joy, How populous, how vital, is the grave!

And quite unparadise the realms of light. This is creation's melancholy vault,

Safe are you lodg'd above these rolling spheres ; The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; The baleful influence of whose giddy dance The land of apparitions, empty shades !

Sheds sad vicissitude on all beneath. All, all on Earth, is shadow, all beyond

Here teems with revolutions every hour;
Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed :

And rarely for the better; or the best,
How solid all, where change shall be no more! More mortal than the common births of fate.
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn,

Each moment has its sickle, emulous
The twilight of our day, the vestibule :

Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Life's theatre as yet is shut, and Death,

Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays Strong Death, alone can heave the massy bar, His little weapon in the narrower sphere This gross impediment of clay remove,

of sweet domestic comfort, and cuts down And make us embryoes of existence free.

The fairest bloom of sublunary bliss. From real life, but little more remote

Bliss ! sublunary bliss -proud words, and vain ! Is he, not yet a candidate for light,

Implicit treason to divine decree! The future embryo, slumbering in his sire.

A bold invasion of the rights of Heaven! Embryoes we must be, till we burst the shell, I clasp'd the phantoms, and I found them air. Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life, O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace ! The life of gods, O transport ! and of man. What darts of agony had miss'd my heart! Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts ; Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine Inters celestial hopes without one sigh.

To tread out empire, and to quench the stars. Prisoner of Earth, and pent beneath the Moon, The Sun himself by thy permission shines ; Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by Heaven And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his sphere. To fly at infinite ; and reach it there,

Amid such mighty plunder, why exhaust
Where seraphs gather immortality,

Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean?
On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. Why thy peculiar rancor wreak'd on me?
What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow, Insatiale archer! could not one suffice?
In his full beam, and ripen for the just,

Thy shaft flew thrice ; and thrice my peace was slain Where momentary ages are no more!

And thrice, ere thrice yon Moon had fill'd her horn Where Time, and Pain, and Chance, and Death expire! O Cynthia! why so pale? Dost thou lament And is it in the flight of threescore years,

Thy wretched neighbor ? Grieve to see thy wheel To push eternity from human thought,

Of ceaseless change outwhirl'd in human life? And smother souls immortal in the dust?

How wanes my borrow'd bliss! from fortune's smile A soul immortal, spending all her fires,

Precarious courtesy! not virtue's sure, Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, Self-given, solar ray of sound delight. Thrown into tumult, raptur'd or alarm’d,

In every varied posture, place, and hour, At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, How widow'd every thought of every joy! Resembles ocean into tempest wrought,

Thought, busy thought! too busy for my peace! To waft a feather, or to drown a fly,

Through the dark postern of time long elaps'd,
Where falls this censure? It o'erwhelms myself; Led softly, by the stillness of the night,
How was my heart incrusted by the world! Led, like a murderer, (and such it proves!)
O how self-fetter'd was my grovelling soul! Strays (wretched rover!) o'er the pleasing past;
How, like a worm, was I wrapt round and round In quest of wretchedness perversely strays,
In silken thought, which reptile Fancy spun, And finds all desert now; and meets the ghosts
Till darken'd Reason lay quite clouded o'er of my departed joys; a numerous train!
With soft conceit of endless comfort here,

I rue the riches of my former fate;
Nor yet put forth her wings to reach the skies ! Sweet comfort's blasted clusters I lament;

Night-visions may befriend (as sung above :) I tremble at the blessings once so dear;
Our waking dreams are fatal. How I dreamt And every pleasure pains me to the heart.
Of things impossible! (Could sleep do more ?) Yet why complain? or why complain for one ?
or joys perpetual in perpetual change!

Hangs out the Sun his lustre but for me, Of stable pleasures on the tossing wave!

The single man? Are angels all beside ? Eternal sun-shine in the storms of life!

I mourn for millions : 'tis the common lor; How richly were my noon-tide trances hung In this shape, or in that, has Fate entaila With gorgeous tapestries of pictur'd joys !

The mother's throes on all of woman born, Joy behind joy, in endless perspective!

Not more the children, than sure heirs, of pain. Till at Death's toll, whose restless iron tongue War, Famine, Pest, Volcano, Storm, and Fire, Calls daily for his millions at a meal,

Intestine broils, Oppression, with her heart
Starting I woke, and found myself undone. Wrapt up in triple brass, besiege mankind.
Where now my frenzy's pompous furniture ? God's image disinherited of day,
The cobweb'd cottage, with its ragged wall

Here, plung’d in mines, forgets a Sun was made. Of mouldering mud, is royalty to me!

There, beings deathless as their haughty lord, The spider's most attenuated thread

Are hammer d to the galling oar for life ; Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie

And plow the winter's wave, and reap despair. On earthly bliss! it breaks at every breeze. Some, for hard masters, broken under arms,

Oye blest scenes of permanent delight! In battle lopt away, with half their limbs, Full, above measure! lasting, beyond bound ! Beg bitter bread through realms their valor sar'd. A perpetuity of bliss is bliss.

If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom.

Want, and incurable Disease, (fell pair!)

Dear is thy welfare ; think me not unkind; On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize

I would not damp, but to secure thy joys. At once; and make a refuge of the grave. Think not that fear is sacred to the storm : How groaning hospitals eject their dead!

Stand on thy guard against the smiles of Fate. What numbers groan for sad admission there! Is Heaven tremendous in its frowns ? Most sure ; What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-fed, And in its favors formidable too : Solicit the cold hand of Charity!

Its favors here are trials, not rewards ;
To shock us more, solicit it in vain !

A call to duty, not discharge from care ;
Ye silken sons of pleasure! since in pains And should alarm us, full as much as woes ;
You rue more modish visits, visit here,

Awake us to their cause and consequence ;
And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce And make us tremble, weigh'd with our desert;
Surfeit's dominion o'er you : but so great

Awe Nature's tumult, and chastise her joys, Your impudence, you blush at what is right. Lest, while we clasp, we kill them ; nay, invert

Happy! did sorrow seize on such alone. To worse than simple misery, their charms
Not prudence can defend, or virtue save;

Revolted joys, like foes in civil war,
Disease invades the chastest temperance ; Like bosom-friendships to resentment sour’d,
And punishment the guiltless ; and alarm,

With rage envenom'd rise against our peace
Through thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace. Beware what Earth calls happiness; beware
Man's caution often into danger turns ;

All joys, but joys that never can expire And his guard, falling, crushes him to death. Who builds on less than an immortal base, Not happiness itself makes good her name; Fond as he seems, condemns his joys to death. Our very wishes give us not our wish.

Mine died with thee, Philander! thy last sigh How distant oft the thing we dote on most, Dissolv'd the charm; the disenchanted Earth From that for which we dote, felicity!

Lost all her lustre. Where her glittering towers ? The smoothest course of Nature has its pains ! Her golden mountains, where all darken'd down And truest friends, through error, wound our rest. To naked waste ; a dreary vale of tears; Without misfortune, what calamities!

The great magician's dead! Thou poor, pale piece And what hostilities, without a foe!

Of outcast earth, in darkness! what a change Nor are foes wanting to the best on Earth. From yesterday! Thy darling hope so near, But endless is the list of human ills,

(Long-labor'd prize!) O how ambition flush'd And sighs might sooner fail, than cause to sigh. Thy glowing cheek! Ambition truly great,

A part how small of the terraqueous globe Of virtuous praise. Death's subtle seed within Is tenanted by man! the rest wasle,

(Sly, treacherous miner!) working in the dark, Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sands; Smil'd at thy well-concerted scheme, and beckon'd Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death. The worm io riot on that rose so red, Such is Earth's melancholy map! but, far Unfaded ere it fell ; one moment's prey! More sad! this Earth is a true map of man.

Man's foresight is conditionally wise ; So bounded are its haughty lord's delights Lorenzo! wisdom into folly turns 'To woe's wide empire; where deep troubles toss, Oft, the first instant, its idea fair Loud sorrows howl, envenom'd passions bite, To laboring thought is born. How dim our eye! Ravenous calamities our vitals seize,

The present moment terminates our sight; And threatening fate wide opens to devour. Clouds, thick as those on doomsday, drown the next;

What then am I, who sorrow for myself! We penetrate, we prophesy in vain. In age, in infancy, from others' aid

Time is dealt out by particles; and each, Is all our hope ; to teach us to be kind.

Ere mingled with the streaming sands of life, That, Nature's first, last lesson to mankind : By Fate's inviolable oath is sworn The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels. Deep silence, “Where eternity begins." More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts ; By Nature's law, what may be, may be now ; And conscious virtue mitigates the pang.

There's no prerogative in human hours. Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give In human hearts what bolder thought can rise Swoln thought a second channel ; who divide, Than man's presumption on to

morrow's dawn? They weaken too, the torrent of their grief. Where is to-morrow? in another world. Take, then, 0 World! thy much-indebted tear : For numbers this is certain ; the reverse How sad a sight is human happiness,

Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps, To those whose thought can pierce beyond an hour! This peradventure, infamous for lies, O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults ! As on a rock of adamant, we build Wouldst thou I should congratulate my fate? Our mountain-hopes, spin out eternal schemes, I know thou wouldst; thy pride demands it from me. As we the fatal sisters could out-spin, Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needs, And, big with life's futurities, expire. The salutary censure of a friend.

Not e'en Philander had bespoke his shroud : - Thou happy wretch! by blindness thou art blest ; Nor had he cause ; a warning was denied : By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles.

How many fall as sudden, not as safe ! Know, smiler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd! As sudden, though for years admonish'd home. Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.

Of human ills the last extreme beware, Misfortune, like a creditor severe,

Beware, Lorenzo! a slow sudden death. But rises in demand for her delay;

How dreadful that deliberate surprise! She makes a scourge of past prosperity,

Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer; To sting thee more, and double thy distress. Next day the fatal precedent will plead ;

Lorenzo, Fortune makes her court to thee, Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Thy fond heart dances, while the Syren sings. Procrastination is the thief of time;


Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves

The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, “That all men are about to live,” TO THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think " When the cock crew, he wept"-smote by that eye
They one day shall not drivel: and their pride Which looks on me, on all: that power, who bids
On this reversion takes up ready praise ;

This midnight sentinel, with clarion shrill, At least, their own; their future selves applaud; Emblem of that which shall awake the dead, How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! Rouse souls from slumber, into thoughts of Heaten. Time lodg‘d in their own hands is folly's vails ; Shall I, too, weep? Where then is fortitude ? That lodg’d in fate's, to wisdom they consign; And, fortitude abandon'd, where is man? The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone ; I know the terms on which he sees the light; "Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;

He that is born, is 'listed ; life is war; And scarce in huma: wisdom, to do more.

Eternal war with woe. Who bears it best, All promise is poor dilatory man,

Deserves it least.- On other themes I'll dwell. And that through every stage: when young, indeed, Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee, In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest,

And thine, on themes may profit; profit there Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish,

Where most they need. Themes, too, the genuine As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.

growth At thirty man suspects himself a fool;

Of dear Philander's dust. He thus, though dead, Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;

May still befriend—What themes ? Time's wondrous At fifty chides his infamous delay,

price, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;

Death, friendship, and Philander's final scene. In all the magnanimity of thought

So could I touch these themes, as might obtain Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same. Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite disengag'd,

And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. The good deed would delight me; half impress All men think all men mortal, but themselves; On my dark cloud an Iris; and from grief Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Call glory.- Dost thou mourn Philander's fate ? Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden I know thou say'st it: Says thy life the same! dread;

He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire. But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Where is that thirst, that avarice of time, Soon close ; where, past the shaft, no trace is (O glorious avarice!) thought of death inspires, found.

As rumor'd robberies endear our gold ? As from the wing no scar the sky retains; O time ! than gold more sacred ; more a load The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; Than lead, to fools; and fools reputed wise. So dies in human hearts the thoughts of death. What moment granted man without account? E'en with the tender tear which Nature sheds What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid ! O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. Our wealth in days, all due to that discharge. Can I forget Philander? That were strange! Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door, O my full heart-But should I give it vent, Insidious Death! should his strong hand arrest, The longest night, though longer far, would fail, No composition sets the prisoner free. And the lark listen to my midnight song.

Eternity's inexorable chain The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn; Fast binds; and vengeance claims the full arrear. Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast, How late I shudder'd on the brink! how late I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer

Life call’d for her last refuge in despair! The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel ! like thee, That time is mine, O Mead! to thee I owe; And call the stars to listen: every star

Fain would I pay thee with eternity. Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.

But ill my genius answers my desire ; Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel, My sickly song is mortal, past thy cure. And charm through distant ages: wrapt in shade, Accept the will ;-that dies not with my strain. Prisoner of darkness! to the silent hours,

For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo ? not
How often I repeat their rage divine,

For Esculapian, but for moral aid.
To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe! Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon.
I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire. Youth is not rich in time, it may be poor;
Dark, though not blind, like thee, Mæonides! Part with it as with money, sparing; pay
Or, Milton! thee; ah, could I reach your strain! No moment, but in purchase of its worth ;
Or his, who made Mæonides our own.

And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tell Man too he sung: immortal man I sing ;

Part with it as with life, reluctant; big Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life; With holy hope of nobler time to come; What, now, but immortality can please?

Time higher aim'd, still nearer the great mark O had he press'd his theme, pursued the track, Of men and angels; virtue more divine. Which opens out of darkness into day!

Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain? O had he, mounted on his wing of fire,

(These Heaven benign in vital union binds) Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man! And sport we like the natives of the bough, llow had it blest mankind, and rescued me! When vernal suns inspire ? Amusement reigns

Man's great demand : to trifle, is to live :

How heavily we drag the load of life! And is it then a trifle, too, to die?

Bleşt leisure is our curse ; like that of Cain, Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo ! 'tis confest. It makes us wander; wander Earth around What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake ? To fly that tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groan'd Who wants amusement in the flame of battle? The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour. Is it not treason to the soul immortal,

We cry for mercy to the next amusement; Her foes in arms, eternity the prize ?

The next amusement mortgages our fields ; Will toys amuse, when medicines cannot cure? Slight inconvenience! Prisons hardly frown, When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes From hateful Time if prisons set us free. Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight,

Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief, As lands, and cities with their glittering spires, We call him cruel ; years to moments shrink, To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd. Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there? To man's false optics (from his folly false) Will toys amuse? No: thrones will then be toys, Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale. And seems to creep, decrepit with his age;

Redeem we time ?- Its loss we dearly buy. Behold him, when past by ; what then is seen, What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd sports ? But his broad pinions swifier than the winds? He pleads time's numerous blanks ; he loudly And all mankind, in contradiction strong, pleads

Rueful, aghast! cry out on his career. The straw-like trifles on life's common stream. Leave to thy foes these errors, and these ills; From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee? To Nature just, their cause and cure explore. No blank, no trifle, Nature made, or meant. Not short Heaven's bounty, boundless our expense ; Virtue, or purpos'd virtue, still be thine;

No niggard, Nature; men are prodigals. This cancels thy complaint at once. This leaves We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live. In act no trifle, and no blank in time.

Time wasted is existence, us'd is life, This greatens, fills, immortalizes all;

And bare eristence, man, to live ordain'd, This, the blest art of turning all to gold;

Wrings, and oppresses with enormous weight. This the good heart's prerogative to raise

And why? since Time was given for use, not waste, A royal tribute from the poorest hours;

Enjoin'd to fly ; with tempest, tide, and stars, Immense revenue! every moment pays,

To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man; If nothing more than purpose in thy power;

Time's use was doom'd a pleasure; waste, a pain ; Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed :

That man might feel his error, if unseen: Who does the best his circumstance allows,

And, feeling, fly to labor for his cure; Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more. Not, blundering, split on idleness for ease. Our outward act indeed admits restraint;

Life's cares are comforts ; such by Heaven design'd; "Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer; He that has none, must make them, or be wretched. Guard well thy thought ; our thoughts are heard in Cares are employments, and without employ Heaven.

The soul is on a rack; the rack of rest, On all-important time, through every age,

To souls most adverse; action all their joy. Though much, and warm, the wise have urg'd; the Here then, the riddle, mark'd above, unfolds

When time turns torment, when man turns a fool. Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour.

We rave, we wrestle, with great Nature's plan; I've lost a day"—the prince who nobly cried We thwart the Deity; and 'tis decreed, Had been an emperor without his crown;

Who thwart his will, shall contradict their own. Cf Rome? Say, rather, lord of human race : Hence our unnatural quarrels with ourselves; He spoke, as if deputed by mankind.

Our thoughts at enmity ; our bosom-broil ; So should all speak: so Reason speaks in all : We push Time from us, and we wish him back: From the soft whispers of that God in man, Lavish of lustrums, and yet fond of life; Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly,

Life we think long, and short ; Death seek, and For rescue from the blessing we possess ?

shun: Time, the supreme !—Time is Eternity;

Body and soul, like peevish man and wife,
Pregnant with all eternity can give;

United jar, and yet are loth to part.
Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. Oh the dark days of vanity! while here,
Who murders time, he crushes in the birth How tasteless! and how terrible, when gone!
A power ethereal, only not adorn'd.

Gone! they ne'er go; when past, they haunt us Ah! how unjust to Nature and himself,

still ;
Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man! The spirit walks of ev'ry day deceased;
Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
We censure Nature for a span too short;

Nor death, nor life delight us. If time past, That span too short, we tax as tedious too; And time possest, both pain us, what can please? Torture invention, all expedients tire,

That which the Deity to please ordain'd, To lash the lingering moments into speed,

Time us'd. The man who consecrates his hours And whirl us (bappy riddance!) from ourselves. By vigorous effort, and an honest aim, Art, brainless Art! our furious charioteer

At once he draws the sting of life and death; (For Nature's voice unstifled would recall) He walks with Nature; and her paths are peace. Drives headlong towards the precipice of death ; Our error's cause and cure are seen : see next Death, most our dread; death thus more dreadful Time's nature, origin, importance, speed ; made :

And thy great gain from urging his career.O what a riddle of absurdity!

All-sensual man, because untouch'd, unseen, Leisure is pain ; takes off our chariot-wheels; He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing else


« ZurückWeiter »