Where is that thirst, that avarice of Time, 25 (0 glorious avarice!) thought of death inspires, As rumour'd robberies endear our gold? O Time! than gold more sacred; more a load 30 35 Fast binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear Life call'd for her last refuge in despair! That time is mine, O Mead! to thee I owe ; 40 Fain would I pay thee with eternity. But ill my genius answers my desire : My sickly song is mortal, past thy cure. Accept the will:-that dies not with my strain. 45 For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo? not For Esculapian, but for moral aid. Thou think'st it folly to he wise too soon. 50 And what it's worth, ask deathbeds; they can tell. Part with it as with life, reluctant; big With holy hope of nobler time to come; Time higher aim'd, still nearer the great mark Of men and angels, virtue more divine. 55 (These Heaven benign in vital union binds) And sport we like the natives of the bough, When vernal suns inspire? Amusement reigns, Man's great demand: to trifle is to live: 60 And is it then a trifle, too, to die? Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo! 'tis confess'd 65 70 What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake? 75 No blank, no trifle Nature made or meant. 80 Virtue, or purposed virtué, still be thine; This cancels thy complaint at once; this leaves In act no trifle, and no blank in time. 85 This the good heart's prerogative to raise A royal tribute from the poorest hours: Guard well thy thought: our thoughts are heard in Heaven!" 95 On all important time, through every ago, Though much, and warm, the wise have urged, the man Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. 'I've lost a day,'-the prince who nobly cried, flad been an emperor without his crown. 100 Of Rome? say, rather, lord of human race: 105 For rescue from the blessings we possess? That span too short we tax as tedious too; Torture invention, all expedients tire, To lash the lingering moments into speed, And whirl us (happy riddance!) from ourselves. Art, brainless Art! our furious charioteer, 120 (For Nature's voice unstifled would recal) Drives headlong towards the precipice of death; Death most our dread; death thus more dreadful made O what a riddle of absurdity! Leisure is pain; takes off our chariot wheels: 125 130 135 Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd: 140 Leave to thy foes these errors and these ills; To Nature just, their cause and cure explore. Not short Heaven's bounty, boundless our expense; No niggard Nature, men are prodigals. 145 We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live. 150 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. 155 Time's use was doom'd a pleasure, waste a pain, That man might feel his error if unseen, And, feeling, fly to labour. for his cure; Not, blundering, split on idleness for casc. 159 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; 165 170 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! 175 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! 180 Time used. The man who consecrates his hours 185 At once he draws the sting of life and death; Our error's cause and cure are seen: see next 190 195 Not on those terms was Time (Heaven's stranger!) sent On his important embassy to man. Lorenzo! no: on the long-destined hour, 200 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) 205 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; |