Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd in Fate's to Wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose they postpone.
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that thro' ev'ry stage. When young, indeed,
In full content we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects 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
Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.
And why? because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal but themselves;
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where past the shaft no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
E'en with the tender tear which Nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.
Can I forget Philander? that were strange!
O my full heart!—But should I give it vent,
The longest night, tho' longer far, would fail,
And the lark listen to my midnight song.
The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn;
Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast,
I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer
The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel! like thee,
And call the stars to listen: ev'ry star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.
Yet be not vain; there are who thine excel,
And charm thro' distant ages. Wrapt in shade,
Pris'ner of darkness! to the silent 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, tho' not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee. Ah, could I reach your strain!
Or his who made Mæonides our own.
Man, too, he sung: immortal man I sing:
Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life :
What now but immortality can please?
O had he press'd his theme, pursu❜d the track
Which opens out of darkness into day!
O had he mounted on his wing of fire,
Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man,
How had it blest mankind, and rescu'd me!
ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.
RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.
"WHEN the cock crew he wept,"-smote by that
Which looks on me, on all; that pow'r who bids
This midnight sentinel, with clarion shrill,
Emblem of that which shall awake the dead,
Rouse souls from slumber into thoughts of heaven.
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 listed: life is war;
Eternal war with woe; who bears it best
Deserves it least.-On other themes I'll dwell.
Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee
And thine; on themes may profit; profit there
Where most they need, Themes, too, the genuine
growth
Of dear Philander's dust. He thus, tho' dead,
May still 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 disengag'd,
The good deed would delight me; half impress
On my dark cloud an Iris, and from grief
Call glory.-Dost thou mourn Philander's fate?
I know thou say'st it says thy life the same?
He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire.
Where is that thirst, that avarice of time,
(0 glorious avarice!) thought of death inspires,
As rumour'd robberies endear our gold?
O Time! than gold more sacred; more a load
Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid?
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.
Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door.
Insidious Death! should his strong hand arrest,
No composition sets the pris'ner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain
Fast binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear.
How late I shudder'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 answers my desire :
My sickly song is mortal, past thy cure.
Accept the will;-that dies not with my strain.
For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo? not
For Esculapian, but for moral aid.
Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon.
Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor;
Part with it as with money, sparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth;
And what its worth, ask deathbeds; they can tell.
Part with it, as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come;
Time higher aim'd, still nearer the great mark
Of men and angels, virtue more divine.
Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain?
(These heav'n benign in vital union binds)
And sport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal suns inspire? Amusement reigns,
Man's great demand: to trifle is to live:
And is it then a trifle, too, to die?
Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo! 'tis confest.
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle?
Is it not treason in the soul immortal,
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