From real life: but little more remote Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. moon, Here pinions all his wishes; winged by heaven To fly at infinite: and reach it there On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. And is it in the flight of threescore years Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. Had been an emperor without his crown. For rescue from the blessings we possess? Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth A power ethereal, only not adored. Ah! how unjust to nature and himself We censure Nature for a span too short; Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, And seems to creep, decrepit with his age. Behold him when passed by; what then is seen But his broad pinions swifter than the winds? And all mankind, in contradiction strong, We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live; Time wasted is existence; used, is life: Enjoined to fly, with tempest, tide, and stars, 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 still : The spirit walks of every day deceased, That which the Deity to please ordained, Time used. 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. On his important embassy to man. By Godhead streaming through a thousand worlds; Not on those terms, from the great days of heaven, From old eternity's mysterious orb Was time cut off, and cast beneath the skies; The skies, which watch him in his new abode, Measuring his motions by revolving spheres, That horologe machinery divine. Hours, days, and months, and years, his children play, Like numerous wings, around him, as he flies; Or rather, as unequal plumes, they shape When worlds that count his circles now, unhinged, (Fate the loud signal sounding) headlong rush To timeless night and chaos, whence they rose. But why on time so lavish is my song: On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school To teach her sons herself. Each night we die Each morn are born anew; each day a life; And shall we kill each day? If trifling kills, Sure vice must butcher. O what heaps of slain Cry out for vengeance on us! time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt. Throw years away? Throw empires, and be blameless: moments seize ; Heaven's on their wing: a moment we may wish, When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid day stand still, Bid him drive back his car and re-impart Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. 858.-PROCRASTINATION. Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer: How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! vails; That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool, And scarce in human wisdom to do more. And that through every stage. When young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate More we perceive by dint of thought alone; To see their treasure, hear their glory told, $59. THE EMPTINESS OF RICHES. Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine? dig peace or wisdom from the mine? Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less To make our fortune than our happiness : happiness which great ones often see, and wonder, in a low degree, The poor are only That With rage 'Themselves unbless'd. poor. But what are they who droop amid their store? But some, great souls! and touch'd with warmth divine, Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine; All hoarded treasures they repute a load, Grand reservoirs of public happiness, Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too. Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state; belong, Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng. See how they beg an alms of Flattery: Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. 860.-THE LOVE OF PRAISE. What will not men attempt for sacred praise! It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast; The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart: The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure; Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells; 'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads, Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades. Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence; There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence. Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes, Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. 861.-THE ASTRONOMICAL LADY. Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love; Elope from mortal man, and range above. The fair philosopher to Rowley flies, Where in a box the whole creation lies: She sees the planets in their turns advance, And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance! Of Desaguliers she bespeaks fresh air; And Whiston has engagements with the fair. What vain experiments Sophronia tries! 'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies. But though to-day this rage of science reigns, Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. A lady? pardon my mistaken pen, 862. THE LANGUID LADY. The languid lady next appears in state, She, by just stages, journeys round the room: But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs And that is spoke with such a dying fall, Life is not worth so much, she'd rather starve: But chew she must herself! ah cruel fate! Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. 863.-THE SWEARER. Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien ; name. This honest fellow is sincere and plain, And teach the neighbouring echoes how to swear. By Jove is faint, and for the simple swain; 864.-SHOWERS IN SPRING. The north-east spends his rage; he now, shut up Within his iron cave, the effusive south Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise, Into a perfect calm, that not a breath Forgetful of their course. "Tis silence all, With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young, Warm'd and expanded into perfect life, Amid the neighbouring bush they silent drop, And whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive The unfeeling schoolboy. Hence around the head Of wandering swain the white-winged plover wheels Her sounding flight, and then directly on, In long excursion, skims the level lawn To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck hence O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste The heath-hen flutters: pious fraud! to lead The hot-pursuing spaniel far astray. James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748. 866.-DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. But happy they! the happiest of their kind! Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws, power, Perfect esteem, enliven'd by desire Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, With boundless confidence: for nought but love Can answer love, and render bliss secure. Their brittle bondage break, and come to To bless himself, from sordid parents buys light; A helpless family! demanding food then, What melting sentiments of kindly care, On the new parent seize! away they fly Affectionate, and, undesiring, bear The most delicious morsel to their young, Which, equally distributed, again The search begins. Even so a gentle pair, By fortune sunk, but form'd of generous mould, And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast, In some lone cot amid the distant woods, The loathing virgin, in eternal care, Well merited, consume his nights and days; And equal transport, free as Nature live, High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish; 41 |