O treach'rous Confcience! while fhe feems to fleep
On rofe and myrtle, lull'd with fyren fong;
While fhe feems nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the flacken'd rein,
And give us up to licence, unrecall'd,
Unmark'd; -fee, from behind her fecret ftand,
The fly informer minutes ev'ry fault,
And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the grofs A alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band,
A watchful foe! the formidable spy,
Lift'ning, o'erhears the whispers of our camp:
Our dawning purposes of heart explores,
And fteals our embryos of iniquity.
As all rapacious ufurers conceal
Their doomsday-book from all-confuming heirs;
Thus, with indulgence moft fevere, fhe treats
Us fpendthrifts of ineftimable Time ;
Unnoted, notes each moment mifapply'd ;
In leaves more durable than leaves of brass,
Writes our whole hiftory; which Death fhall read
In ev'ry pale delinquent's private ear;
And Judgment publish; publish to more worlds
Than this; and endless age in groans refound.
LORENZO, fuch that Sleeper in thy breast!
Such is her flumber; and her vengeance fuch
For flighted counfel; Such thy future peace!
And think'st thou ftill thou canst be wife too foon?
But why on Time fo lavish is my fong?
On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school,
To teach her fons herfelf. Each night we die,
Each morn are born anew: Each day, a life!
And fhall we kill each day? If Trifling kills;
Sure Vice muft butcher. O what heaps of flain
Cry out for vengeance on us! Time deftroy'd
Is Suicide, where more than Blood is fpilt.
Time flies, death urges, knells call, heav'n invites,
Hell threatens : All exerts; in effort, all;
More than creation labours !—labours more ?
And is there in creation, what, amidst
This tumult universal, wing'd dispatch,
And ardent energy, fupinely yawns ?
Man fleeps; and Man alone; and Man, whofe fate,
Fate irreversible, intire, extreme,
Endless, hair hung, breeze-fhaken, o'er the gulph
A moment trembles; drops! and Man, for whom
All elfe is in alarm! Man, the fole caufe
Of this furrounding storm! and yet he fleeps,
As the ftorm rock'd to reft.-Throw Years away?
Throw Empires, and be blameless. Moments feize
Heav'n's on their wing: A moment we may wish,
When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid Day ftand still,
Bid him drive back his car, and reimport
The period past, regive the given hour.
LORENZO, more than miracles we want ;
LORENZO-O for yesterdays to come!
Such is the language of the man awake;
His ardor fuch, for what oppresses thee.
And is his ardor vain, LORENZO? No;
That more than miracle the gods indulge;
To-day is Yesterday return'd; return'd
Full pow'r'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn,
And reinftate us on the Rock of
peace.
Let it not share its predeceffor's fate;
Nor, like its elder fifters, die a fool.
Shall it evaporate in fume? Fly off
Fuliginous, and ftain us deeper ftill?
Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd?
More wretched for the clemencies of heav'n ?
Where fhall I find Him? Angels! tell me where.
You know him: He is near you: Point him out:
Shall I fee glories beaming from his brow?
Or trace his footsteps by the rifing flowers?
Your golden wings, now hov'ring o'er him, shed
Protection; now, are waving in applaufe
To that b'eft fon of forefight! lord of fate!
That awful independent on To-morrow!
Whofe work is done; who triumphs in the Paft;
Whofe Yesterdays look backwards with a fmile;
Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly;
That common, but opprobrious lot! paft hours,
If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight,
If folly bounds our profpect by the grave,
All feeling of futurity benumb'd;
All god-like paffion for eternals quencht;
All relifh of realities expir'd;
Renounc'd all correfpondence with the skies;
Our freedom chain'd; quite winglefs our defire;
In fenfe dark-prifon'd all that ought to foar;
Prone to the centre; crawling in the duft;
Difmounted ev'ry great and glorious aim;
Embruted ev'ry faculty divine;
Heart-bury'd in the rubbish of the world.
The world, that gulph of fouls, immortal fouls,
Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire
To reach the diftant fkies, and triumph there
On thrones, which shall not mourn their masters chang'd;
Tho' we from Earth; Ethereal, they that fell.
Such veneration due, O man, to man.
Who venerate themselves, the world despise.
For what, gay friend! is this efcutcheon'd world,
Which hangs out DEATH in one eternal night?
A night, that glooms us in the noon-tide ray,
And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the shroud.
Life's little ftage is a small eminence,
Inch-high the grave above; that home of man,
Where dwells the multitude: We gaze around;
We read their monuments; we figh; and while
We figh, we fink; and are what we deplor'd;
Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot!
Is death at distance? No: He has been on thee;
And giv'n fure earnest of his final blow.
Those hours that lately fmil'd, where are they now?
Pallid to thought, and ghastly! drown'd, all drown'd
In that great deep, which nothing difembogues!
And, dying, they bequeath'd thee small renown.
The reft are on the wing: How fleet their flight!
Already has the fatal train took fire;
A moment, and the world's blown up to thee;
The fun is darkness, and the flars are duft.
'Tis greatly wife to talk with our past hours;
And ask them, what report they bore to heaven;
And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Their answers form what men Experience call ;
If Wisdom's friend, her beft; if not, worst foe.
O reconcile them! Kind Experience cries,
"There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs;
"The more our joy, the more we know it vain;
And by fuccefs are tutor❜d to despair."
Nor is it only thus, but must be fo.
Who knows not this, tho' grey, is still a child.
Loofe then from earth the grasp of fond defire,
Weigh anchor, and fome happier clime explore.
Art thou fo moor'd thou canst not difengage,
Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future scenes ?
Since, by Life's paffing breath, blown up from earth,
Light, as the fummer's duft, we take in air
A moment's giddy flight, and fall again;
Join the dull mass, increase the trodden foil,
And fleep, till earth herself shall be no more;
Since then (as emmets, their small world o'erthrown}
We, fore-amaz'd, from out earth's ruins crawl,
And rife to fate extreme of foul or fair,
As man's own choice (controuler of the skies!)
As man's defpotic will, perhaps one hour,
(O how omnipotent is time!) decrees;
Should not each warning give a strong alarm?
Warning, far less than that of bosom torn
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