Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd: To man's false opties (from his folly false) Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, And seems to creep, decrepit with his age, Behold him when pass'd by; what then is seen But his broad pinions swifter than the winds? And all mankind, in contradiction strong, Rueful, aghast, cry out on his career.
Leave to thy foes these errors and these ills; T'o Nature just, their cause and cure explore. Not short Heaven's bounty, boundless our expense; No niggard Nature, men are prodigals.
We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live. Time wasted is existence; used, is life:
And bare existence man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight.
And why? since time was given for use, not waste,
Enjoin'd to fly, with tempest, tide, and stars,
To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man.
Time's use was doom'd a pleasure, waste a pain,
That man might feel his crror if unseen,
And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure;
Not, blundering, split on idleness for ease.
Life's cares are comforts; such by Heaven design'd;
He that has none must make them, or be wretched. Cares are employments, and without employ
The soul is on a rack, the rack of rest,
To souls most adverse, action all their joy.
Here then the riddle, mark'd above, unfolds; Then Time turns torment, when man turus a fool. We rave, we wrestle with great Nature's plan; We thwart the Deity; and 'tis decreed, Who thwart His will shall contradict their own. Hence our unnatural quarrels with ourselves; Our thoughts at enmity; our bosom-broil : We push Time from us, and we wish him back Lavish of lustrums, and yet fond of life:
Life we think long and short, death seek and shun: Body and soul, like peevish man and wife, United jar, and yet are loath to part.
Oh the dark days of vanity! while here
How tasteless! and how terrible when gone!
Gone? they ne'er go; when pass'd, they haunt us still. The spirit walks of every day deceased,
And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Nor death nor life delight us. If time past
And time possess'd both pain us, what can please! That which the Deity to please ordain'd,
Time used. The man who consecrates his hours 185 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.
Our error's cause and cure are seen: see next Time's nature, origin, importance, speed, And thy great gain from urging his career,- All sensual man, because untouch'd, unseen, He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing else Is truly man's; 'tis Fortune's.-Time's a god! Hast thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence? For, or against, what wonders can he do! And will: to stand blank neuter he disdains.
Not on those terms was Time (Heaven's stranger!) sent
On his important embassy to man.
Lorenzo! no: on the long-destined hour,
From everlasting ages growing ripe,
That memorable hour of wondrous birth,
When the Dread Sire, cn emanation bent,
And big with Nature, rising in his might,
Call'd forth Creation (for then Time was born) 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
His ample pinions, swift as darted flame, To gain his goal, to reach his ancient rest, And join anew Eternity, his sire;
in his immutability to nest,
When worlds, that count his circles new, unhinged
(Fate the loud signai sounding) headlong rush
To timeless night and chaos, whence they rose. Why spur the speedy why with levities
New-wing thy short, short day's too rapid flight? Know'st thou or what thou dost, or what is done? 225 Man flies from Time, and Time from man: too soon, In sad divorce, this double flight must end; And then where are we? where, Lorenzo! then, Thy sports, thy pomps? I grant thee in a state Not unambitious; in the ruffled shroud, Thy Parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath. Has Death his fopperies? then well may Life Put on her plume, and in her rainbow shine.
Ye well array'd! ye lilies of our land! Ye lilies male! who neither toil nor spin, (As sister-lilies might) if not so wise As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight! Ye delicate! who nothing can support, Yourselves most insupportable! for whom The winter-rose must blow, the Sun put on A brighter beam in Leo; silky-soft, Favonious! breathe still softer, or be chid; And other worlds send odours, sauce, And robes, and notions, framed in foreign looms! O ye Lorenzos of our age! who deem
One moment unamused a misery
Not inade for feeble man! who call alond
For every bauble drivel'd o'er by sense;
For rattles and conceits of every east ;
For change of follies and relays of joy,
To drag your patient through the tedious length Of a short winter's day-say, sages! say, Wit's oracles! say, dreamers of gay dreams! How will you weather an eternal night, Where such expedients fail?—
O treacherous Conscience! while she seems to sleep On rose and myrtle, lull'd with siren song;
While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop On headlong Appetite the slacken'd rein, And give us up to license, unrecall'd,
Unmark'd: see, from behind her secret stand,
Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs,
Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats Us spendthrifts of inestimable time,
Unnoted, notes cach moment misapplied; In leaves more durable than leaves of brass Writes our whole history, which Death shall read In every pale delinquent's private ear, And judgment publish, publish to more words Than this, and endless age in groans resound. Lorenzo! such that sleeper in thy breast; Such is her slumber, and her vengeance such For slighted counsel; such thy future peace: And think'st thou still thou canst be wise too soon: 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 destroy'd Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt. 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 universal, wing'd despatch,
And ardent energy, supinely yawns ?—
Man sleeps, and man alone; and man, whose fate, Fate irreversible, entire, extreme,
Endless, hair-hung, breeze-shaken, o'er the gulf 300 A moment trembles; drops! and man, for whom
All else is in alarm; man, the sole cause
Of this surrounding storm! and yet he sleeps, As the storm rock'd to rest!-Throw years away? Throw empires, and be blameless: moments seize, 305 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 reimport The period past, regive the given hour. Lorenzo! more than miracles we want. Lorenzo-O for yesterdays to come!
Such is the language of the man awake, His ardour such for what oppresses thee. And is his ardour 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 reinstate us on the rock of peace.
Let it not share its predecessor's fate, Nor, like its elder sisters, die a fool. Shall it evaporate in fume, fly off Fuliginous, and stain us deeper still?
Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd?
More wretched for the clemencies of Heaven?
Where shall I find him Angels tell me where
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