And call the Stars to liften: every ftar

Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy Lay.
Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excell,
And charm thro' diftant Ages: Wrapt in Shade,
Pris'ner of Darkness! to the filent Hours,
How often I repeat their Rage divine,

To lull my Griefs, and fteal my heart from Woe?
I roll their Raptures, but not catch their Flame:
Dark, tho' not blind, like thee Mæonides!

Strain!

Or Milton! thee; ah cou'd I reach your
Or His, who made Mæonides our Own.
Man too he fung: Immortal man I fing;
Oft burfts my Song beyond the bounds of Life;
What, now, but Immortality can please?
O had He prefs'd his Theme, purfu'd the track,
Which opens out of Darkness into Day!
O had he mounted on his wing of Fire,
Soar'd, where I fink, and sung Immortal man!
How had it bleft mankind? and rescued me?

'HEN the Cock crew, he wept"-Smote

"W

by that Eye,

Which looks on me, on All: That
Pow'r, who bids

This Midnight Centinel with Clarion fhrill,

Emblem of that which shall awake the Dead,

Rouze Souls from Slumber, into Thoughts of Heav'n.
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 beft,
Deferves it leaft.-On other Themes I'll dwell.
Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on Thee,
And Thine, on Themes may profit; profit there,
Where moft thy need. Themes, too, the genuine growth
Of dear Philander's Duft. He, thus, tho' dead,
May ftill befriend--What Themes ?. Time's wondrous
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;
Androne to weep: profuse of dewy teárs
Q'er Nature, in her temporary Tomb.

So could I touch thefe 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 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 TIME,
(O glorious Avarice!) thought of Death infpires,
As rumour'd robberies endear our Gold?

Time! than Gold more facred; more a Load: Than Lead, to Fools; and Fools reputed Wife. What Moment granted Man without account? What Years 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 composition fets the Pris'ner free. Eternity's inexorable chain

Fast binds; and Vengeance claims the full Arrear.

How

How late I shudder'd on the brink? how late Life call'd for her laft Refuge in Defpair? 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, paft thy Cure. Accept the Will; It dies not with my strain. 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 Purchafe of its worth: And what its worth, ask 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, ftill nearer the great Mark Of Men and Angels; Virtue more divine.

Is this our Duty, Wisdom, Glory, Gain ?
(These Heav'n benign in vital Union binds)
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 fay't 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 Treason to the Soul Immortal,
Her Foe's in Arms, Eternity the Prize?

Will Toys amufe, when Med'cines cannot cure?
When Spirits ebb, when Life's inchanting Scenes
Their Luftre lofe, 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.
Redeem we Time ?---its Lofs we dearly buy:
What pleads Lorenze for his high-priz'd Sports?
He pleads Time's num'rous Blanks; he loudly pleads
The ftraw-like Trifles on Life's common Stream.
From whom those Blanks and Trifles, but from Thee?
No Blank, no Trifle Nature made, or meant.

Virtue, or purpos'd Virtue still be thine;

This cancels thy Complaint at once; This leaves
In a no Trifle, and no Blank in Time.
This greatens, fills, immortalizes all;
This, the blest Art of turning all to Gold;
This, the good Heart's prerogative tð raise
A royal tribute, from the pooreft Hours.
Immenfe Revenue ! every Moment pays.
If nothing more than Purpose in thy power,
Thy purpose firm, is equal to the Deed:
Who does the best his circumftance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; Angels could no more.
Our outward Act, indeed, admits restraint;
"Tis not in Things o'er Thought to domineer;
Guard well thy Thought; our Thoughts are heard in
Heav'n.

On all-important Time, through every Age,

Tho' much, and warm, the Wise have urg'd; the Man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an Hour.
"I've loft a Day"-The Prince who nobly cry'd,
Had been an Emperor without his Crown;
Of Rome? fay, rather, Lord of human race;
He spoke, as if deputed by Mankind.
So fhould all speak fo Reafon fpeaks in All:
From the foft Whispers of that God in man,
Why fly to Folly, why to Frenzy fly,
For Rescue from the Bleffings we poffefs?
Time, the Supreme!-Time is Eternity;

Pregnant