Her golden Mountains, where? all darken'd down
To naked Wafte; a dreary Vale of Tears;
The great Magician's dead! Thou poor, pale Piece
Of out-cast Earth, in Darknefs! what a Change
From Yesterday! Thy darling Hope fo near,
(Long-labour'd Prize!) O how Ambition flush'd
Thy glowing Cheek! Ambition truly great,
Of virtuous Praife. Death's fubtle 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 Rofe fo red,
Unfaded ere it fell; one Moment's Prey!
Man's Forefight is conditionally wife;
LORENZO! Wisdom into Folly turns,
Oft, the first Inftant its Idea fair
To labouring Thought is born. How dim our Eye!
The prefent Moment terminates our Sight;
Clouds, thick as thofe on Doomsday, drown the next 、
We penetrate, we prophefy in vain.
Time is dealt out by Particles; and each,
Ere mingled with the ftreaming Sands of Life,
By Fate's inviolable Oath is fworn
Deep Silence," Where Eternity begins."
By Nature's Law, what may be, may
There's no Prerogative in human Hours.
In human Hearts what bolder Thought can rife,
Than Man's Prefumption on To-morrow's Dawn?
Where is To-morrow? In another World.
For Numbers this is certain; the Reverse
Is fure to none; and yet on this Perhaps,
This Peradventure, infamous for Lyes,
As on a Rock of Adamant, we build
Our Mountain Hopes; fpin out eternal Schemes,
As we the fatal Sifters could out-fpin,
And, big with Life's Futurities, expire.
Not e'en PHILANDER had bespoke his Shroud: Nor had he Caufe; à Warning was deny'd: How many fall as fudden, not as fafe! As fudden, tho' for Years admonisht home: Of human Ills the last Extreme beware, Beware, LORENZO! a flow-fudden Death. How dreadful that deliberate Surprize! Be wife To-day; 'tis Madness to defer; Next Day the fatal Precedent will plead ; Thus on, till Wisdom is push'd out of Life Procraftination is the Thief of Time; Year after Year it fteals, till all are fled, And to the Mercies of a Moment leaves The vaft Concerns of an eternal Scene. If not fo frequent, would not this be strange? That 'tis fo frequent, This is ftranger ftill.
Of Man's miraculous Mistakes, this bears The Palm, "That all Men are about to live," For ever on the Brink of being born.
themselves the Compliment to think They one Day fhall 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 confign;
The Thing they can't but purpose, they postpones
'Tis not in Folly, not to fcorn a Fool;
And scarce in human Wisdom to do more.
All Promife is poor dilatory Man,
And that thro' ev'ry Stage: When young, indeed,
In full Content we, fometimes, nobly rest,
Un-anxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous Sons, our Fathers were more wife.
At Thirty Man fufpects himself a Fool;
Knows it at Forty, and reforms his Plan;
At Fifty chides his infamous Delay,
Pushes his prudent Purpose to Refolve
In all the Magnanimity of Thought
Refolves; and re-refolves; then dies the fame.
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
All Men think all Men mortal, but Themfelves;
Themselves, when fome alarming Shock of Fate
Strikes thro' their wounded Hearts the fudden Dread;
But their Hearts wounded, like the wounded Air,
Soon clofe; 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.
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 fhould I give it Vent,
The longest Night, tho' longer far, would fail,
And the Lark liften to my Midnight Song. |
The fpritely Lark's fhrill Matin wakes the Morn;
Grief's fharpeft Thorn hard preffing on my Breast,
I strive, with wakeful Melody, to chear
The fullen Gloom, fweet Philomel! like Thee,
And call the Stars to liften: Ev'ry Star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy Lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,
And charm thro' diftant Ages: Wrapt in Shade,
Pris'ner of Darknefs! to the filent Hours,
How often I repeat their Rage divine,
To lull my Griefs, and fteal my Heart from Woe!
I roll their Raptures, but not catch their Fire.
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee, Maonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah could I reach your Strain!
Or His, who made Mæonides our Own.
Man too He fung: Immortal Man I fing
Oft burfts my Song beyond the Bounds of Life!
What, now, but Immortality can please?
O had He prefs'd his Theme, purfu'd the Track,
Which opens out of Darkness into Day!
O had he mounted on his Wing of Fire,
Soar'd, where I fink, and fung Immortal Man!
How had it bleft Mankind, and refcu'd me?
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