"HEN the Cock crew, he wept"---Smote

by that Eye, Which looks on me, on All: That

Pow'r, who bide

This Midnight Centinel with Clarion

fhrill,

Emblem of that which fhall awake the Dead,

Rouze Souls from Slumber, into Thoughts of Heaven.

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 best,

Deferves it least.-----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, tho' dead
-May still befriend-----What Themes? Time's won-

1

drous Price,

Death, Friendship, and Philander's final Scene.

Themes meet for man! and meet at ev'ry hour,
But most at This, at Midnight ever clad
In Death's own Sables; filent as his Realms;

And prone to weep; profufe of dewy tears
O'er Nature, in her temporary Tomb.

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

I know

I know thou fay'ft it, fays thy Life the fame ? He mourns the Dead, who lives as they defire. Where is that Thrift, that Avarice of TIM E, (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 rears 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 sets the Prisoner 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 anfwers

my Defire,

My fickly Song is mortal, past thy Cure.
Accept the Will; It dies not with my ftrain.

For what calls thy Disease 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, afk 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? (Thefe Heaven benign in vital Union binds)

And

And sport we like the Natives of the Bough,
When vernal Suns infpire? Amusement reigns
Man's great Demand: To trifle is to live:
And is it then a Trifle, too, to die?----
Thou say'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 Treafon, to the Soul immortal,

Her Foes in Arms, Eternity the Prize?
Will Toys amufe, when Med'cines cannot cure?
When Spirits ebb, when Life's inchanting Scenes
Their Luftre lose, and leffen in our fight,

(As Lands, and Cities with their glitt'ring Spires,
To the poor shatter'd Bark, by fudden Storm
Thrown off to Sea, and foon to perish there)
Will Toys amufe ?---No: Thrones will then be Toys,
And Earth and Skies feem Duft upon the Scale.