Want, and incurable disease, (fell pair!) 255 260 To shock us more, solicit it in vain! Ye silken sons of Pleasure! since in pains You rue more modish visits, visit here, And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce Surfeit's dominion o'er you. But so great 265 Your impudence, you blush at what is right. 270 Not Happiness itself makes good her name; 275 From that for which we dote, felicity! The smoothest course of Nature has its pains, And truest friends, through error, wour our rest. 280 And what hostilities, without a foe! Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth But endiess is the list of human ills, And sighs might sooner fail than cause to sigh. 285 Is tenanted by man! the rest a waste, Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sands Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death. 290 296 To Woe's wide empire, where deep troubles toss, 300 305 To those, whose thought can pierce beyond an hour! O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults, Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate! 310 I know thou wouldst; thy pride demands it from me: Let thy pride pardon what thy Nature needs, The salutary censure of a friend. Thou happy wretch! by blindness thou art bless'd; By dotage dandled to perpetual smiles. 315 Know, smiler! at thy peril art thou pleased: Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain Misfortune, like a creditor severe, Is Heaven tremendous in its frowns? most sure; 320 325 Its favours here are trials, not rewards; Like bosom friendships to resentment sour'd, 330 335 340 345 350 The great magician's dead! Thou poor, pale piece 355 Of virtuous praise. Death's subtle seed within, Unfaded ere it fell, one moment's prey! 360 Man's foresight is conditionally wise; Lorenzo! wisdom into folly turns Oft, the first instant; its idea fair To labouring thought is born. How dim our eye! 365 Clouds, thick as those on Doomsday, drown the next; We penetrate, we prophesy in vain, Time is dealt out by particles, and each Are mingled with the streaming sands of life. Deep silence,-where Eternity begins. 370 By Nature's law, what may be may be now; There's no prerogative in human hours. In human hearts what bolder thought can rise Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn? 375 Where is to-morrow? In another world. For numbers this is certain; the reverse Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps, As on a rock of adamant, we build 360 Our mountain hopes, spin out eternal schemes, As we the Fatal Sisters could outspin, And, big with life's futurities, expire. Not e'en Philander had bespoke his shroud; Nor had he cause; a warning was denied. 385 How many fall as sudden, not as safe! As sudden, though for years admonish'd home; 390 395 Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears 400 They one day shall not drivel, and their pride 405 At least their own; their future selves applauds. The thing they can't but purpose they postpone. 410 "Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool, And scarce in human wisdom to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, And that through every stage. When young, indeed. In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 415 Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty chides his infamous delay, 420 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 425 430 And why? because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread. But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where pass'd the shaft no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains, The parted wave no furrov: from the keel, So dies in human hearts the thought of death: E'en with the tender tear which Nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. Can I forget Philander? that were strange! O my full heart!—But should I give it vent, The longest night, though longer far, would fail, And the lark listen to my midnight song. The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn; Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast, I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel' like thee, And call the stars to listen: every star 435 441 |