I tremble at the blessings once so dear;
And ev'ry pleasure pains me to the heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the sun his lustre but for me,
The single man? are angels all beside?
I mourn for millions: 'tis the common lot;
In this shape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throes, on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than sure heirs of pain.
War, famine, pest, volcano, storm, and fire,
Intestine broils, oppression, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brass, besieg'd mankind.
GOD's image, disinherited of day,

Here plung'd in mines, forgets a sun was made;
There, beings, deathless as their haughty lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life;
And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair.
Some, for hard masters, broken under arms,
In battle lopp'd away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread, thro' realms their valor sav'd,
If so the tyrant, or his minions, doom.
Want, and incurable disease (fell pair!)
On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize
At once; and make a refuge of the grave:
How groaning hospitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for sad admission there!
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold hand of charity!

To shock us more, solicit us in vain!
Ye silken sons of pleasure! since in pains
You rue more modish visits, visit here,

And breathe from your debauch; give, and reduce
Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but so great
Your impudence, you blush at what is right.
Happy! did sorrow seize on such alone:
Not prudence can defend, or virtue save;
Disease invades the chastest temperance;
And punishment the guiltless; and alarm,
Thro' thickest shades pursues the fond of peace.
Man's caution often into danger turns,
And, his guard falling, crushes him to death.
Not happiness itself makes good her name;

Our very wishes give us not our wish.
How distant oft the thing we doat on most,
From that for which we doat, felicity!

The smoothest course of nature, has its pains,
And truest friends, thro' error, wound our rest.
Without misfortune, what calamities!
And what hostilities, without a foe!

Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth:
But endless is the list of human ills,

And sighs might sooner fail, than cause to sigh.
A part how small of the terraqueous globe
Is tenanted by man! the rest a waste,
Rocks, desarts, frozen seas, and burning sands;
Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death,
Such is earth's melancholy map! but far

More sad! this earth is a true map of man:
So bounded are his haughty lord's delights
To woe's wide empire; where deep troubles toss,
Loud sorrows houl, envenom'd passions bite,
Rav'nous calamities our vitals seize,

And threat'ning fate wide opens to devour.
What then am I, who sorrow for myself?

In age, in infancy, from others' aid
Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind.
That nature's first, last lesson to mankind;
The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels;
More gen❜rous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts;
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang.
Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give
Swol'n thought a second channel; who divide,
They weaken too, the torrent of their grief.
Take then, O world! thy much-indebted tear :
How sad a sight is human happiness,

To those whose thought can pierce beyond an hour!
O thou, what e'er thou art, whose heart exults!
Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate?

I know thou wouldst; thy pride demands it from me.
Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needs,
The salutary censure of a friend.

Thou happy wretch! by blindness thou art blest;
By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles.

Know, smiler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd;

Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.
Misfortune, like a creditor severe,
But rises in demand for her delay;

She makes a scourge of past prosperity,
To sting thee more, and double thy distress.
Lorenzo, fortune makes her court to thee:
Thy fond heart dances, while the syren sings.
Dear is thy welfare; think me not unkind;
I would not damp, but to secure, thy joys.
Think not that fear is sacred to the storm.
Stand on thy guard against the smiles of fate.
Is heav'n tremendous in its frowns? most sure;
And in its favors formidable too:

Its favors here are trials, not rewards;

A call to duty, not discharge from care;
And should alarm us, full as much as woes;
Awake us to their cause, and consequence,
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our desert;
Awe nature's tumults, and chastise her joys,
Lest, while we clasp, we kill them; nay, invert
To worse than simple misery, their charms.
Revolted joys, like foes in civil war,
Like bosom friendships to resentment sour'd,
With rage envenom'd rise against our peace.
Beware what earth calls happiness; beware
All joys, but joys that never can expire.
Who builds on less than an immortal base,
Fond as he seems, condemns his joys to death.

Mine dy'd with thee, Philander! thy last sigh
Dissolv'd the charm; the disenchanted earth
Lost all her lustre. Where, her glitt'ring tow'rs?
Her golden mountains, where? all darken'd down
To naked waste; a dreary vale of tears:
The great magician's dead! thou poor, pale piece
Of out-cast earth, in darkness! what a change
From yesterday! thy darling hope so near,
(Long labor'd prize!) O how ambition flush'd
Thy glowing cheek! ambition truly great,
Of virtuous praise. Death's subtle seed within,
(Sly, treach'rous miner!) working in the dark,
Smil'd at thy well-concerted-scheme, and beckon'd

The worm to riot on that rose so red,
Unfaded ere it fell; one moment's prey!
Man's foresight is conditionally wise.
Lorenzo! wisdom into folly turns
Oft, the first instant; its idea fair

To lab'ring thought is born. How dim our eye!
The present moment terminates our sight;

Clouds, thick as those on doomsday, drown the next;
We penetrate, we prophecy, in vain.

Time is dealt out by particles; and each,

Are mingled with the streaming sands of life,
By fate's inviolable oath is sworn

Deep silence, "Where eternity begins."

By nature's law, what may be, may be now;
There's no prerogative in human hours.

In human hearts what bolder thought can rise,
Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn?
Where is to-morrow? In another world.
For numbers this is certain; the reverse
Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps,
This peradventure, infamous for lies,
As on a rock of adamant we build

Our mountain hopes; spin our eternal schemes,
As we the fatal sisters would out-spin,
And, big with life's futurities expire.

Not ev'n Philander had bespoke his shroud,
Nor had he cause; a warning was denied:
How many fall as sudden, not as safe!
As sudden, tho' for years admonished home.
Of human ills the last extreme beware,
Beware, Lorenzo! a slow-sudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate surprize!
Be wise to-day: 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, 'till wisdom is push'd out of life.
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,"
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;

At least their own; their future selves applauds.
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 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,
Un-anxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As dutequs 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 tho't

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 tho't of death.
Ev'n 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