And shall we kill each day? If Trifling kills;
Sure Vice muft butcher. O what heaps of flain
Cry out for vengeance on us! Time destroy'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 univerfal, wing'd dispatch,
And ardent energy, fupinely yawns ?

Man Пleeps; and Man alone; and Man, whofe fate,
Fate irreverfible, intire, extreme,

Endless, hair-hung, breeze-shaken, o'er the gulph
A moment trembles; drops! and Man, for whom
All elfe is in alarm! Man, the fole caufe
Of this furrounding ftorm! and yet he fleeps,
As the ftorm rock'd to rest.-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 ftill,
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 power'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 sisters, die a fool.
Shall it evaporate in fume? Fly off

Fuliginous,

Fuliginous, and stain 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 applause
To that bleft son of forefight! lord of fate!
That awful independent on To-morrow !
Whose work is done; who triumphs in the Paft;
Whofe Yesterdays look backwards with a smile;
Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly;
That common, but opprobrious lot! past hours,
If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight,
If folly bounds our prospect by the grave,
All feeling of futurity benumb'd;

All god-like paffion for eternals quencht;
All relish 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 mafters chang'd, Tho' we from Earth; Ethereal, they that fell.

Such, veneration due, O man, to man.

Who

Who venerate themfelves, 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 stage 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.
Thofe hours that lately fmil'd, where are they now?
Pallid to thought, and ghaftly! 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 stars are dust.

'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 anfwers 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 success are tutor❜d to despair.”

Nor is it only thus, but must be fo.

Who knows not this, tho' grey, is still a child.
Loose then from earth the grasp of fond defire,

Weigh anchor, and fome happier clime explore.

Art

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 mafs, increase the trodden foil,
And fleep, till earth herself shall be no more;
Since then (as emmets, their fmall 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 bofom torn
From bofom, bleeding o'er the facred dead!
Should not each dial ftrike us as we pass,
Portentous, as the written wall, which struck,
O'er midnight bowls, the proud Affyrian pale,
Ere-while high-flusht, with infolence, and wine?
Like that, the dial fpeaks; and points to thee,
LORENZO! loth to break thy banquet up:
"O man, thy kingdom is departing from thee;
«And, while it lafts, is emptier than my shade."
Its filent language fuch: Nor need'st thou call
Thy Magi, to decypher what it means.
Know, like the Median, fate is in thy walls:
Doft afk, How? Whence? Belshazzar-like, amaz’d?
Man's make inclofes the fure feeds of death;
Life feeds the murderer: Ingrate! he thrives
On her own meal, and then his nurfe devours.
But, here, LORENZO, the delufion lies;
That folar fhadow, as it measures life,
It life resembles too: Life fpeeds away

From point to point, tho' seeming to stand still.
The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth:
Too fubtle is the movement to be feen;
Yet foon man's hour is up, and we are gone.
Warnings point out our danger; Gnomons, time:
As thefe are useless when the fun is fet:

So thofe, but when more glorious Reason fhines.
Reafon fhould judge in all; in reafon's eye,
That fedentary fhadow travels hard.
But fuch our gravitation to the wrong,
So prone our hearts to whisper what we wish,
"Tis later with the wife than he's aware:
A Wilmington goes flower than the fun :
And all mankind mistake their time of day;
Ev'n age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly fown
In furrow'd brows. To gentle life's defcent
We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain.
We take fair days in winter, for the spring;.
And turn our bleffings into bane. Since oft
Man must compute that age he cannot feel,
He scarce believes he's older for his years.
Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in store
One disappointment fure, to crown the reft;
The disappointment of a promis'd hour.

On This, or fimilar, PHILANDER ! thou
Whose mind was moral, as the preacher's tongue;
And strong, to wield all science, worth the name;
How often we talk'd down the fummer's fun,
And cool'd our paffions by the breezy ftream!
How often thaw'd and fhorten'd winter's eve,
By conflict kind, that ftruck out latent truth,
Beft found, fo fought; to the Reclufe more coy!
Thoughts difentangle paffing o'er the lip;
Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away,

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