14

THE COMPLAINT.

Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, That all men are about to live,'
For ever on the brink of being born.

All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least their own; their future selves applauds.
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!
Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodg'd 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 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,
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,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same.

ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY.

15

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,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Ev'n 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
Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.

Yet be not vain; there are who thine excel,
And charm through distant ages. Wrapt in shade,
Prisoner of darkness! to the silent hours
How often I repeat their rage divine,

To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe!
I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire.
Dark, though not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah, could I reach
Or his who made Mæonides our own.

your

strain!

Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life: What, now, but immortality can please?

O had he press'd his theme, pursued the track Which opens out of darkness into day!

O had he mounted on his wings of fire, Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man! How had it blest mankind, and rescued me!

END OF NIGHT FIRST.

THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT II.

ON

TIME, DEATH, AND FRIENDSHIP.

то

THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF WILMINGTON.

WHEN the cock crew he wept,' smote by that eye
Which looks on me, on all; that Pow'r who bids
This midnight centinel, with clarion shrill,
Emblem of that which shall awake the dead,
Rouse 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 sees the light:
He that is born is listed: life is war;

Eternal war with woe: who bears it best
Deserves it least.-On other themes I'll dwell.
Lorenzo! let me turn my thoughts on thee,
And thine; on themes may profit; profit there

Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life:
What, now, but immortality can please?

O had he press'd his theme, pursued the track
Which opens out of darkness into day!
O had he mounted on his wings of fire,
Soar'd where I sink, and sung immortal man!
How had it blest mankind, and rescued me!

END OF NIGHT FIRST.