Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, From short (as usual) and disturbed repose I wake: how happy they who wake no more! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wrecked desponding thought From wave to wave of fancied misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain (A bitter change!) severer for severe : The day too short for my distress; and night, E'en in the zenith of her dark domain, Night, sable goddess! from her ebon In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Nor eye nor list'ning ear an object finds; From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. Thou, who didst put to flight Oh Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul; My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure, As misers to their gold, while others rest. Through this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. Oh lead my mind (A mind that fain would wander from its woe), Lead it through various scenes of life and death, And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. Nor less inspire my conduct than my song: On this devoted head, be poured in vain. ** How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How passing wonder He who made him such! Who centred in our make such strange extremes, From different natures marvellously mixed, A worm a god! I tremble at myself, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! Oh what a miracle to man is man! Triumphantly distressed! what joy! what dread! Alternately transported and alarmed! What can preserve my life! or what destroy! An angel's arm can't snatch me from the 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. 857.-THOUGHTS ON TIME. The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss: to give it then a tongue I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the signal that demands despatch: Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss. Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? O time! than gold more sacred; more a load Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise. What moment granted man without account? What years are squandered, wisdom's debt unpaid! Our wealth in days all due to that discharge. Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door; Insidious Death; should his strong hand arrest, 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 chil dren play, 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 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 Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread: But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where past the shaft no trace is found, As from the wing no scar the sky retains, E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. 859.-THE EMPTINESS OF RICHES. Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine? Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine? Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less To make our fortune than our happiness: That happiness which great ones often see, With rage and wonder, in a low degree, 'Themselves unbless'd. The poor are only poor. But what are they who droop amid their store ? Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state; Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng. See how they beg an alms of Flattery: It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast; More we perceive by dint of thought alone; To see their treasure, hear their glory told, 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. Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. 860.-THE LOVE OF PRAISE. What will not men attempt for sacred praise ! 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; 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, But chew she must herself! ah cruel fate! Edward Young.-Born 1681, Died 1765. At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise, Into a perfect calm, that not a breath Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, |