AWAKE, my Laura, break the silken chain,
Awake, my Friend, to hours unsoil'd by pain:
Awake to peaceful joys and thought refin'd,
Youth's cheerful morn, and Virtue's vigorous mind :
Wake to all joys, fair friendship can bestow,
All that from health, and prosp'rous fortune flow.
Still dost thou sleep? awake, imprudent fair,
Few hours has life, and few of those can spare
Forsake thy drowsy couch, and sprightly rise
While yet fresh morning streaks the ruddy skies:
While yet the birds their early mattins sing,
And all around us blooming as the spring.
Ere sultry Phoebus with his scorching ray
Has drank the dew-drops from their mansion gay,
Scorch'd ev'ry flow'r, embrown'd each drooping green,
Pall'd the pure air, and chas'd the pleasing scene.
Still dost thou sleep? O rise, imprudent fair,
Few hours has life, nor of those few can spare.
But this, perhaps, was but a summer song, And winter nights are dark, and cold, and long : Weak reason that, for sleeping past the morn Yet urg'd by sloth, and by indulgence born.
*For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise?
To lie in dull oblivion, losing half
The fleeting moments of too short a life!
Oh rather haste to rise, my slumb'ring friend,
While feeble suns their scanty influence lend;
While cheerful day-light yet adorns the skies,
Awake, my Friend! my Laura haste to rise.
For soon the uncertain short-liv'd day shall fail,
And soon shall night extend her sooty veil * :
Blank nature fades, black shades and phantoms drear
Haunt the sick eye, and fill the court of fear.
O therefore sleep no more, imprudent fair,
Few hours has day, few days the circling year,
Few years has life, and few of those can spare.
Think of the task those hours have yet in view,
Reason to arm, and passion to subdue;
While life's fair calm, and flatt'ring moments last,
To fence your mind against the stormy blast:
Early to hoard blest Wisdom's peace-fraught store,
Ere yet your bark forsakes the friendly shore,
And the winds whistle, and the billows roar.
Imperfect beings! weakly arm'd to bear
Pleasure's soft wiles, or sorrow's open war;
Alternate shocks from diff'rent sides to feel,
Now to subdue the heart, and now to steel:
Yet fram'd with high aspirings, strong desires,
How mad th' attempt to quench celestial fires!
Still to perfection tends the restless mind,
And happiness its bright reward assign'd.
And shall dull sloth obscure the Heav'n-beam'd ray
That guides our passage to the realms of day,
Cheers the faint heart, and points the dubious way!
Not weakly arm'd, if ever on our guard,
Nor to the worst unequal if prepar'd:
The night cometh when no man work. JoHN ix. 4.
Not unsurmountable the task, if lov'd,
Nor short the time if ev'ry hour improv'd.
O rouse thee, then, nor shun the glorious strife,
Extend, improve, enjoy thy hours of life:
Assert thy reason, animate thy heart,
And act thro' life's short scene the useful part: Then sleep in peace, by gentlest mem'ry crown'd, Till time's vast year has fill'd its perfect round.
|