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So dies in human hearts the thoughts of death.
Ev'n 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 fhould I give it vent,
The longest night, though longer far, would fail,
And the lark listen to my midnight song.

The fpritely lark's fhrill matin wakes the morn;
Grief's fharpeft thorn hard preffing on my breaft,
I ftrive, with wakeful melody, to chear
The fullen gloom, fweet Philomel! like Thee,
And call the ftars to liften: every star
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.

Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel,

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And charm through diftant ages: wrapt in fhade, 445 Prifoner of darknefs! to the filent 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.
Dark, though not blind, like thee, Maonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah, could I reach your strain !
Or His, who made Mæonides our Own.
Man too He fung: immortal man I fing;
Oft burfts my fong beyond the bounds of life;
What, now, but immortality can please?
O had He prefs'd his theme, purfued the track,
Which opens out of darkness into day!
O had he, mounted on his wing of fire,
Soar'd where I fink, and sung immortal man!
How had it bleft mankind, and rescued me!

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NIGHT THE SECOND.

ON

TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.

TO THE

RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.

"WHEN the Cock crew, he wept"-fimote by that

eye,

Which looks on me, on all: That power, who bids This midnight centinel, with clarion fhrill,

Emblem of that which fhall awake the dead,

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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 theines I'll dwell.
Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee,
And thine, on themes may profit; profit there,
Where moft thy need. Themes, too, the genuine growth
Of dear Philander's duft. He thus, though dead, 15
May till befriend-What themes? Time's wondrous

price,

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Death,

Death, Friendship, and Philander's final scene.
So could I touch these themes, as might obtain
Thine car, 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 say`st it: Says thy life the same ?
He mourns the dead, who lives as they defire.
Where is that thirst, that avarice of Time,
(O glorious avarice!) thought of death infpires,
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 squander'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! should his strong hand arrest,
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 last 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
For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo? not
For Efculapian, but for moral aid.

ftrain.

The

Thou think'ft it folly to be wife too soon.
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;

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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, ftill nearer the great mark
Of men and angels; virtue more divine.

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Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain?
(Thefe 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'st I preach, Lorenzo, 'tis confeft.
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amusement 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 fpires,
To the poor shatter'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?

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He pleads Time's numerous blanks; he loudly plea
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 poorest 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 heaven.

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On all important Time, through every age, Though much, and warm, the wife have urg'd; the m Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour. "I've loft a day"--the prince who nobly cry'd Had been an emperor without his crown; Of Rome, say, rather, lord of human race : He fpoke, as if deputed by mankind. So fhould all speak: So reafon speaks in all: From the foft whifpers of that God in man, Why fly to folly, why to phrenzy fly,

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