TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.
RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.
"WHEN the Cock crew, he wept"-fmote by that
Which looks on me, on all: That power, who Eids This midnight centinel, with clarion thrill,
Emblem of that which fhall awake the dead,
Roufe fouls from flumber, into thoughts of heaven. 5
Shall I too weep? Where then is fortitude?
And, fortitude abandon'd, where is man?
I know the terms on which he fees the light;
He that is born, is lifted, life is war;
Eternal war with woe. Who bears it beft,
Deferves it leaft.-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 duft. He thus, though dead, 15
May ftill befriend-What themes? Time's wondrous
Death, Friendship, and Philander's final fcene.
So could I touch these themes, as might obtain
Thine ear, nor leave thy heart quite difengag'd,
The good deed would delight me; half impress
On my
dark cloud an Iris; and from grief
Call glory-Doft thou mourn Philander's fate?
I know thou fay'ft it: Says thy life the fame?
He mourns the dead, who lives as they defire.
Where is that thirst, that avarice of Time,
(0 glorious avarice!) thought of death inspires,
As rumour'd robberies endear our gold?"
O Time! than gold more facred; more a load
Than lead, to fools; and fools reputed wife.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are fquander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid!
Our wealth in days, all due to that discharge.
Hafte, hafte, he lies in wait, he 's at the door,
Infidious Death! fhould his ftrong hand arreft,
No compofition fets the prifoner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain
Faft binds; and vengeance claims the full arrear.
How late I fhudder'd on the brink! how late
Life call'd for her laft refuge in despair!
That Time is mine, O Mead! to thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with Eternity.
But ill my genius answers my defire;
My fickly fong is mortal, past thy cure.
Accept the will;-that dies not with my strain.
For what calls thy difeafe, Lorenzo ? not
For Efculapian, but for moral aid.
Thou think'ft it folly to be wife too foon.
Youth is not rich in Time, it may be poor;
Part with it as with money, fparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth;
And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come;
Time higher aim'd, still nearer the great mark
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 funs infpire? Amusement reigns
Man's great demand: To trifle, is to live:
And is it then a trifle, too, to die?
Thou fay'ft I preach, Lorenzo, 'tis confeft.
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amusemen in the flame of battle?
Is it not treason, to the foul immortal,
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize?
Will toys amufe, when medicines cannot cure?
When fpirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes
Their luftre lofe, and leffen in our fight,
As lands, and cities with their glittering spires,
To the poor fhatter'd bark, by fudden storm
Thrown off to fea, and foon to perish there?
Will toys amufe? No: Thrones will then be toys,
And earth and fkies feem duft upon the fcale.
Redeem we time ?-Its lofs we dearly buy.
What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd sports?
He pleads Time's numerous blanks; he loudly pleads
The ftraw-like trifles on life's common ftream.
From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee?
No blank, no trifle, nature made, or meant.
Virtue, or propos`d 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 bleft art of turning all to gold;
This, the good heart's prerogative to raise
A royal tribute from the pooreft hours;
Immenfe revenue! every moment pays.
If nothing more than purpose in thy power;
Thy purpofe firm, is equal to the deed:
Who does the best his circumftance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; 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 wife have urg'd; the man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour.
"I've lift a day"-the prince who nobly cry'd
Had been an emperor without his crown;
Of Rome, fay, rather, lord of human race :
Be fpoke, as if deputed by mankind.
So fhould all fpeak: So reafon speaks in all :
From the foft whispers of that God in man,
Why fly to folly, why to phrenzy fly,
For refcue from the bleffing we poffefs?
Time the fupreme !-Time is Eternity;
Pregnant with all eternity can give ;
Pregnant with all, that makes archangels smile.
Who murders time, he crufhes in the birth
A power ethereal, only not ador'd.
Ah! how unjust to nature and himself,
Is thoughtless, thanklefs, inconfiftent man!
Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,
We cenfure nature for a fpan too short;
That span too short, we tax as tedious too;
Torture invention, all expedients tire,
To lafh the lingering moments into speed,
And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourselves.
Art, brainless Art! our furious charioteer
(For Nature's voice unftifled would recall)
Drives headlong towards the precipice of death;
Death, moft our dread; d. ith thus more dreadful made:
O what a riddle of abfurdity!
Leifure is pain; takes off our chariot wheels;
How heavily we drag the load of life!
Bleft leifure is our curfe; 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.
We cry for mercy to the next amufement;
The next amusement mortgages our fields;
Slight inconvenience! prifons hardly frown,
From hateful Time if prifons fet us free.
Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief,
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