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

Not even Philander had bespoke his shroud; Nor had he cause; a warning was denied. 385 How many fall as sudden, not as safe!

As sudden, though for years admonish'd home.

Of human ills 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; 392 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 400 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 applaud; How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!

Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails;[5]

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, n.o.bly 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; 419 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 through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where pa.s.s'd the shaft, no trace is found.

As from the wing no scar the sky retains; 430 The parted wave no furrow from the keel; So dies in human hearts the thought of death.

Even 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, 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, 440 I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel! like thee, And call the stars to listen: every star Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.

Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel, And charm through distant ages: wrapt 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 woe!

I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire. 450 Dark, though not blind, like thee, Maeonides![6]

Or, Milton! thee; ah, could I reach your strain! 452 Or his, who made Maeonides our own.[7]

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, 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! 460 How had it bless'd mankind, and rescued me!

ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.

NIGHT SECOND.

ON TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.

"When the c.o.c.k crew, he wept"--smote by that eye Which looks on me, on all: that Power, 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 fort.i.tude?

And, fort.i.tude 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, 10 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 thy need; themes, too, the genuine growth Of dear Philander's dust. He thus, though dead, May still befriend--what themes? Time's wondrous price, Death, friendship, and Philander's final scene.

So could I touch these themes, as might obtain Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite disengaged, The good deed would delight me; half impress 20 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 thrift, that avarice of time, (O 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? 30 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 prisoner 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; 40 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; 50 And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

Part with it as with life, reluctant; big With holy hope of n.o.bler time to come; Time higher aim'd, still nearer the great mark 54 Of men and angels; virtue more divine.

Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain?

(These Heaven benign in vital union binds) And sport we like the natives of the bough, When vernal suns inspire? Amus.e.m.e.nt 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 confess'd. 62 What, if for once, I preach thee quite awake?

Who wants amus.e.m.e.nt in the flame of battle?

Is it not treason to the soul immortal, Her foes in arms, eternity the prize?

Will toys amuse, when medicines cannot cure?

When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes Their l.u.s.tre lose, and lessen in our sight, As lands, and cities with their glittering spires, 70 To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there?

Will toys amuse? No: thrones will then be toys, And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale.

Redeem we time?--its loss we dearly buy.

What pleads Lorenzo for his high-prized sports?

He pleads time's numerous blanks; he loudly pleads The straw-like trifles on life's common stream.

From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee?

No blank, no trifle, nature made, or meant. 80 Virtue, or purposed virtue, still be thine; This cancels thy complaint at once, this leaves In act no trifle, and no blank in time.

This greatens, fills, immortalizes all; This, the bless'd art of turning all to gold; This, the good heart's prerogative to raise A royal tribute from the poorest hours; Immense revenue! every moment pays. 88 If nothing more than purpose in thy power; Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circ.u.mstance allows, Does well, acts n.o.bly; angels could no more.

Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint; 'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer; Guard well thy thought; our thoughts are heard in heaven.

On all-important time, through every age, Though much, and warm, the wise have urged; the man Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour.

"I've lost a day"--the prince who n.o.bly cried Had been an emperor without his crown; 100 Of Rome? say, rather, lord of human race: He spoke, as if deputed by mankind.

So should all speak; so reason speaks in all: From the soft whispers of that G.o.d in man, Why fly to folly, why to phrensy fly, For rescue from the blessing we possess?

Time the supreme!--Time is eternity; Pregnant with all eternity can give; Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile.

Who murders time, he crushes in the birth 110 A power ethereal, only not adored.

Ah! how unjust to Nature, and himself, Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!

Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, We censure Nature for a span too short; That span too short, we tax as tedious too; Torture invention, all expedients tire, To lash the lingering moments into speed, And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourselves.

Art, brainless Art! our furious charioteer 120 (For Nature's voice unstifled would recall), Drives headlong towards the precipice of death; 122 Death, most our dread; death thus more dreadful made: Oh, what a riddle of absurdity!

Leisure is pain; takes off our chariot wheels; How heavily we drag the load of life!

Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It makes us wander; wander earth around, To fly that tyrant, thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour. 130 We cry for mercy to the next amus.e.m.e.nt; The next amus.e.m.e.nt mortgages our fields; Slight inconvenience! prisons hardly frown, From hateful time if prisons set us free.

Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief, We call him cruel; years to moments shrink, Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd.

To man's false optics (from his folly false), Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, And seems to creep, decrepit with his age; 140 Behold him, when pa.s.s'd by; what then is seen, But his broad pinions swifter than the winds?

And all mankind, in contradiction strong, Rueful, aghast! cry out on his career.

Leave to thy foes these errors and these ills; To Nature just, their cause and cure explore.

Not short Heaven's bounty, boundless our expence; No n.i.g.g.ard, Nature; men are prodigals.

We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live.