And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are! and as base-
As the fantastic visions of the evening.
But soft, my friend,―arrest the present moments;
For be assur'd, they all are arrant tell-tales;
And though their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to Heav'n, and there record thy folly;
Because, though station'd on th' important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumber'dst on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Justice, who shall tell thy audit?
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio;
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
"Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more pre-
cious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain!-
Oh! let it not elude thy grasp, but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.
O TREACHEROUS Conscience! while she seems to sleep
On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song;
While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the slacken'd rein,
And give us up to License, unrecall'd,
Unmark'd;-see, from behind her secret stand,
The sly informer minutes every fault,
And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the gross act alone employs her pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band.
A watchful foe! the formidable spy
Listening, o'erhears the whispers of our camp,
Our dawning purposes of heart explores,
And steals our embryos of iniquity.
As all-rapacious usurers conceal
Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs,
Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats
Us spendthrifts of inestimable time,
Unnoted, notes each moment misapply'd;
In leaves more durable than leaves of brass
Writes our whole history, which Death shall read
In every pale delinquent's private ear,
And judgment publish; publish to more worlds
Than this, and endless age in groans resound.
Lorenzo! such that sleeper in thy breast;
Such is her slumber, and her vengeance such
For slighted counsel; such thy future peace;
And think'st thou still thou canst be wise too soon!
Young.
THE BELL strikes One. We take no note of time
But from its loss: to give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours.
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the signal that demands despatch:
How much is to be done? My hopes and fears
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss !
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
O TIME! than gold more sacred; more a load
Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise.
What moment granted man without account?
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.
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;
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.
On all important time, through ev'ry age,
Though much, and warm, the wise have urg'd, the
Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. [man
'I've lost a day,'-the prince who nobly cried,
Had been an emperor without his crown.
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 God in man,
Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly,
For rescue from the blessings 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
A power ethereal, only not ador'd.
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:
TIME, in advance, behind him hides his wings,
And seems to creep, decrepit with old age.
Behold him when past 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.
WE WASTE, not use our time; we breathe, not live.
Time wasted is existence; us'd, is life:
And bare existence man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight.
And why? since time was given for use, not waste,
Enjoin'd to fly, with tempest, tide, and stars,
To keep his speed, nor even wait for man.
Time's use was doom'd a pleasure, waste a pain,
That man might feel his error if unseen,
And feeling, fly to labour for his cure;
Not, blundering, split on idleness for ease.
We push Time from us, and we wish him back;
Life we think long, and short; death seek and shun
Oh the dark days of vanity! while here
How tasteless! and how terrible, when gone! Gone? they ne'er go; when past, they haunt us
The spirit walks of every day deceas'd,
And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Nor death nor life delight us.
If time past,
And time possess'd, both pain us, what can please?
That which the Deity to please ordain'd,
Time us'd. The man who consecrates his hours
By vigorous effort, and an honest aim,
At once he draws the sting of life and death:
He walks with nature, and her paths are peace.
"Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours,
And ask them what report they bore to Heav'n,
And how they might have borne more welcome
Their answers form what men Experience call;
If Wisdom's friend her best, if not, worst foe.
ALL-SENSUAL man, because untouch'd, unseen,
He looks on time as nothing. Nothing else
Is truly man's; 'tis Fortune's.-Time's a god
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