Imbitter'd all our blifs. Ye good diftreft! Ye noble few! who here unbending stand Beneath life's preffure, yet bear up a while, And what your bounded view, which only faw A little part deem'd Evil, is no more.
The ftorms of WINT'RY TIME will quickly pafs, And one unbounded SPRING encircle all..
ON PROCRASTINATION.
E wife to-day; 'tis madnefs to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; Thus on, till wifdom is pufh'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it fteals, till all are fled, And to the mercy of a moment leaves The vaft concerns of an eternal scene.
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, fhall not drivel; and their pride On this reverfion 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 Wifdom they confign; The thing they can't but purpose, they poftpone. 'Tis not in Folly, not to scorn a fool;
And scarce in human Wisdom to do more.
All Promife is poor dilatory man,
And that thro' ev'ry ftage. When young indeed, In full content, we fometimes nobly rest, Un-anxious for ourselves; and only with, As duteous fons, 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 purpofe 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 themselves : Themselves, when fome alarming fhock of fate Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the fudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon clofe; where paft the fhaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no fear 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 thofe we love, we drop it in their grave.
THE PAIN ARISING FROM VIRTUOUS EMOTIONS ATTENDED WITH PLEASURE.
BEHOLD the ways
Of Heav'n's eternal destiny to man,
For ever juft, benevolent and wife :
That VIRTUE's awful fteps, howe'er pursued
By vexing Fortune and intrufive Pain,
Should never be divided from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, PLEASURE. Need I urge Thy tardy thought through all the various round. Of this existence, that thy foft'ning foul
At lengt may learn what energy the hand Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of paffion fwelling with diffrets and pain, To mitigate the fharp with gracious drops Of cordial Plealure? Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd So often fills his arms; so often draws His lonely footsteps at the filent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears; O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er feduce his bafom to forego That facred hour, when, ftealing from the noise Of care and envy, fweet Remembrance foothes With Virtue's kindest looks his aching breaft, And turns his tears to rapture.-Afk the crowd Which flies impatient from the village-walk To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coaft Some hapless bark; while facred Pity melts The gen'ral eye, or Terror's icy hand Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; While every mother closer to her breaft Catches her child, and pointing where the waves Foam thro' the shatter'd veffel, fhrieks aloud, As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms For fuccour fwallow'd by the roaring furge, As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down. O deemeft thou indeed No kind endearment here by Nature given To mutual terror and compassion's tears ? No fweetly-melting foftnefs which attracts, O'er all that edge of pain, the focial pow'rs To this their proper action and their end? Afk thy own heart; when at the midnight hour, Slow thro' that ftudious gloom thy paufing eye Led by the glimm'ring taper moves around The facred volumes of the dead, the fongs Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame- For Grecian Heroes, where the prefent pow'r Of heav'n and earth furveys th' immortal page, E'en as a father bleffing, while he reads The praises of his fon; if then thy soul, Spurning the yoke of thefe inglorious days, Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame: Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view, When rooted from the base, heroic ftates Mourn in the duft and tremble at the frown Of curs'd Ambition :-when the pious band Of youths that fought for freedom and their fires Lie fide by fide in gore ;-when ruffian Pride Ufurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp Of public pow'r, the majefty of rule, The fword, the laurel, and the purple robe, To flavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk and glitter in the eyes Of fuch as bow the knee;-when honour'd urns Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust And floried arch, to glut the coward-rage Of regal Envy, ftrew the public way
With hallow'd ruins!-When the Mufe's haunt, The marble porch where Wisdom wont to talk With Socrates or Tully, hears no more, Save the hoarfe jargon of contentious monks, Or female Superflition's midnight pray'r; When ruthlets Rapine from the hand of Time Tears the destroying scythe, with farer blow To sweep the works of glory from their base; Till Defolation o'er the grafs-grown freet Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall, Where fenates, once the pride of monarchs doom'd, Hiffes the gliding faake thro' hoary weeds That clafp the mould'ring column;-thus defac'd, Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills Thy beating bofom, when the patriot's tear Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow, Or dash Octavius from the trophied car ;→→ Say, does thy fecret foul repine to taste The big diftrefs? Or wouldst thou then exchange Thofe heart-enobling forrows, for the lot Of him who fits amid the gaudy herd Of mute barbarians bending to his nod, And bears aloft his gold-invefted front, And fays within himself, "I am a king,
"And wherefore fhould the clam'rous voice of Woe "Intrude upon mine ear ?"-The baleful dregs Of thefe late ages, this inglorious draught
Of fervitude and folly, have not yet, Bleft be th' Eternal Ruler of the World! Defil'd to fuch a depth of fordid shame
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