While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the flacken'd rein,

And give us up to Licence, unrecall'd,
Unmarkt;-See, from behind her secret stand,
The fly Informer minutes every Fault,

And her dread Diary with Horror fills.
Not the grofs Act alone employs her Pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band,

A watchful Foe! The formidable Spy,
Lift'ning o'erhears the Whispers of our Camp;
Our dawning Purposes of Heart explores,
And steals our Embryos of Iniquity.
As all rapacious Ufurers conceal

Their Doomsday-book from all-consuming Heirs ;
Thus, with Indulgence moft fevere, She treats
Us Spendthrifts of ineftimable Time;

Unnoted, notes each Moment misapply'd;

In leaves more durable than leaves of Brass,
Writes our whole history; which Death fhall read
In every pale Delinquent's private Ear;

And Judgment publish; Publish to more worlds
Than this; and endless Age in groans refound.
Lorenzo, fuch that Sleeper in thy Breast!
Such is her Slumber; and her Vengeance fuch
For flighted Counsel; fuch thy future Peace!
And think'st thou ftill thou canst be wife too foon?

But

But why on Time fo lavifh is my Song?
On this great Theme kind Nature keeps a School,
To teach her Sons Herfelf. Each Night we Dye,
Each Morn are born anew; Each Day, a Life!
And shall we kill each Day? If Irifling kills;
Sure Vice must 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, Heaven 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 fleeps; and Man alone; and Man, whose Fate,
Fate irreversible, entire, 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 Cause

Of this furrounding Storm! and yet he fleeps,
As the Storm rock'd to reft.--Throw Years away?
Throw Empires, and be blameless. Moments feize,
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 Carr, recall, retake

Fate's hafty prey; Implore him, reimport
The Period past, regive the given Hour.
Lorenzo, more thar Miracles we want;
Lorenzo---O for Yefterdays to come!

Such is the Language of the Man awake;
His Ardor fuch, for what oppreffes 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 fhare its Predeceffor's Fate;
Nor, like its elder Sifters, die a Fool.
Shall it evaporate in Fume? Fly off
Fuliginous, and ftain us deeper ftill?
Shall we be poorer for the Plenty pour'd?
More wretched for the Clemencies of Heaven?

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 Flow'rs?
Your golden Wings, now hov'ring o'er him fhed
Protection; now, are waving in Applaufe
To that bleft Son of Forefight! Lord of Fate!

That

That aweful Independent on To-morrow!

Whofe Work is done who triumphs in the Paft;
Whole Tefterdays look backwards with a Smile;
Nor, like the Parthian; wound him as they fly;
That common, but opprobrious Lot! Paft Hours
If not by Guilt, yet wound us by their Flight,
If Folly bounds our Profpect 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 Correspondence with the Skies;
Our Freedom chain'd; quite winglefs our Defire,
In Senfe dark'd-prifon'd All that ought to foar,
Prone to the Center, crawling in the Duft,
Difmounted every Great and Glorious Aim;
Embruted every Faculty divine;

Heart-buried in the rubbish of the World.

The World, that Gulph of Souls, immortal Souls,
Souls elevate, Angelick, wing'd with Fire

To reach the diftant Skies, and triumph there
On Thrones, which fhall not mourn their Masters chang'd,
Tho' we from Earth; Etherial, They that fell.
Such Veneration due, O Man, to Man.

Who venerate themselves, the World defpife. For what, gay Friend! is this escutcheon'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 given fure Earneft of his final Blow. Thofe Hours, which lately fmil'd, where are they now? Pallid to Thought, and ghastly! drown'd, all drown'd In that great Deep, which nothing difembogues; And, dying, they bequeath'd thee fmall 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 Sun is Darkness, and the Stars are Duft,

'Tis greatly wife to talk with our past Hours; And ask them, what report they bore to Heaven; And how they might have born more welcome News. Their Answers form what Men Experience call; If Wisdom's Friend, her beft; if not, worst Foe,

Q