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And Spring's new months his train adorn; The other seasons were unborn.
Known by the Gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause. O'er a low trunk his arm he laid (Where since his hours a dial nade); Then leaning heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of fate :
Since Body from the parent Earth, And Soul from Jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they first began : But since their union makes the Man, Till Jove and Earth shall part these two, To Care, who join'd them, Man is due.
He said, and sprung with swist career To trace a circle for the
year; Where ever since the seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.
'Tis well, said Jove, and for consent, Thund'ring he shook the firmament. Our umpire Time shall have his way; With Care I let the creature stay: Let bus'ness vex him, av'rice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion speak, And want afflict, and sickness break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy distract, and sorrow kill. Till arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long-destructive blow;
And wasted Man whose quick decay
THE IGNORANCE OF MAN,
Behold yon new-born infant griev'd
With hunger, thirst, and pain ; That asks to have the wants reliev'd
It knows not to explain.
Aloud the speechless suppliant cries,
And utters, as it can,
And speak its nature Man.
That infant, whose advancing hour
Life's various sorrows try, (Sad proof of sin's transmissive power!)
That infant, Lord! am I.
A childhood yet my thoughts confesss
Tho' long in years mature ; Unknowing whence I feel distress,
And where, or what its cure.
Author of good ! to thee I turn;
Thy ever-wakeful eye
Thy hand alone supply.
O let thy fear within me dwell,
Thy love my footsteps guide; That love shall vainer loves expel,
That fear all fears beside.
And O! by Error's force subdu'd,
Since oft my stubborn will, Preposterous, shuns the latent good,
And grasps the specious ill;
Not to my wish but to my want,
Do thou thy gifts apply: Unask'd, what good thou knowest, grant;
What ill, tho' ask'd, deny,
STANZAS ON MORTALITY,
For ibe Year 1788.
Quod adest, memento
Improve the present hour, for all beside
Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage
How each would trembling wait the mournful
sheet, On which the press might stamp biin next to die; And, reading here his sentence, how replete With anxious meaning, heaven-ward turn his eye!
Time then would seem more precious than the joys,
Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink
Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say
Observe the dappled foresters, how light
Had we their wisdom, should we, often warned,
Sad waste! for which no after thrift atones:
Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught