295

To Woe's wide empire, where deep troubles toss,
Loud sorrows howl, envenom'd passions bite.
Ravenous calamities our vitals seize,
And threatening 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 generous sorrow, while it sinks exalts,
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang,
Nor virtue more than prudence bids me give
Swoln 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

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To those, whose thought can pierce beyond an hour! O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults,

Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate!

319

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 bless'd;

By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles.

315

Know, smiler! at thy peril art thou pleased:

Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain

Misfortune, like a creditor severo,
But rises in demand for her delay;
She makes a scourge of vast prosperity,
To sting thee more, and double thy distress.
Lorenzo Fortune makes her court to thee;
Thy fond heart dances while the siren 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 Heaven tremendous in its frowns? most sure;
And in its favours formidable too

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Its favours 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,
O'er our scann'd conduct give a jealous eye,
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our desert;
Awe Nature's tumult, and chastise her joys,
Lest while we clasp we kill them; nay, invert
To worse than simple misery their charз.
Revolted joys, like foes in civil war,

Like bosom friendships to resent:nent 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.

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Mine died with thee, Philander; thy last sigh
Dissolved the charm; the disenchanted earth
Lost all her lustre. Where her glittering towers?
Her golden mountains where? all darken'd down
To naked waste; a dreary vale of tears.

350

The great magician's dead! Thou poor, pale piece
Of outcast earth, in darkness: what a change
From yesterday! Thy darling hope so near.
(Long-labour'd prize!) O how ambition flush'd
Thy glowing cheek! ambition truly great,

355

Of virtuous praise. Death's subtle seed within, (Sly, treacherous miner!) working in the dark,

Smiled 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!

360

Man's foresight is conditionally wise;

Lorenzo wisdom into folly turns

Oft, the first instant; its idea fair

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

365

Clouds, thick as those on Doomsday, drown the next; We penetrate, we prophesy in vain,

Time is dealt out by particles, and cach

Are mingled with the streaming sands of life.
By Fate's inviolable oath is sworn

Deep silence, where Eternity begins.

370

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?

375

Where is to-morrow? In another world.

For numbers this is certain; the reverse

Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps,

Nor had he cauзe; a warning was denied.

385

How many fa!! as sudden, not as safe'

As sudden, though for years admonish'd home;

Of human ilis the last extreme beware;
Beware, Lorenzo! a slow, sudden death:
How dreadful that deliberate surprise!
Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer :
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is push a out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, tili all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would .ot this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

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335

6

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;

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405

At least their own; their future selves applauds.
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's veils;
That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign;

The thing they can't but purpose they postpone. 410 '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 through every stage. When young, indeed,

In full content we sometimes nobly rest,

415

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

420

And why? because he thinks himself immortal. All men think ali men mortal but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread. But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where pass'd the shaft no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains, The parted wave no furrov: 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 gave, Can I forget Philander? that were strange! O my full heart!-But should I give it vent, The longest night, though 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: every star

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Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.

Yet be not vain; there are who thine excel,

4.15

And charm through distant ages. Wrapp'd in shade, Prisoner of darkness! to the silent hours

How often I repeat their rage divine,

To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from wce!

I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire.
Dark, though 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 iminortality can please?
O had he press d his theme, pursued 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 bless'd mankind, and rescued me!

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