None but the present is our own;
Grace is not plac'd within our power,
'Tis but one fort, one fhining hour,
Bright and declining as a setting fun.
See the white minutes wing'd with hafte;
The Now that flies may be the last;
Seize the falvation e'er 'tis past,
Nor mourn the bleffing gone :
A thought's delay is ruin here,
A clofing eye, a gafping breath,
Shuts up the golden scene in death,
And drowns you in despair.
TO WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, Efq; CASIMIR. Lib. II. Od. 2. imitated.
68 Quæ tegit canas modo Bruma valles, &c."
MARK how it fnows! how faft the valley fills!
And the fweet groves the hoary garment wear; Yet the warm fun-beams bounding from the hills Shall melt the vail away, and the young green appear.
But when old age has on your temples shed
Her filver-froft, there's no returning fun;
Swift flies our autumn, fwift our fummer 's fled,
When youth, and love, and spring, and golden joys are
Then cold, and winter, and your aged fnow,
Stick faft upon you; not the rich array,
Not the green garland, nor the rosy bough,
Shall cancel or conceal the melancholy grey.
The chace of pleasures is not worth the pains,
While the bright fands of health run wafting down
And honour calls you from the fofter scenes,
To fell the gaudy hour for ages of renown.
'Tis but one youth, and short, that mortals have,
And one old age diffolves our feeble frame;
But there's a heavenly art t' elude the grave,
And with the hero-race immortal kindred claim.
The man that has his country's facred tears
Bedewing his cold hearfe, has liv'd his day :
Thus, Blackbourn, we should leave our names our heirs Old time and waning moons fweep all the rest away.
HE rising year beheld th' imperious Gaul
Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns
Crouch'd to the victor: but a steady foul
Stands firm on its own base, and reigns as wide,
As absolute; and sways ten thousand slaves,
Lufts and wild fancies with a fovereign hand.
We are a little kingdom; but the man
That chains his rebel will to reafon's throne,
Forms it a large one, whilst his royal mind
Makes heaven its council, from the rolls above
Draws its own ftatutes, and with joy obeys.
'Tis not a troop of well-appointed guards Create a monarch, not a purple robe
Dy'd in the people's blood, not all the crowns
Or dazzling tiars that bend about the head,
Though gilt with fun-beams and fet round with stars.
A monarch He that conquers all his fears,
And treads upon them; when he stands alone,
Makes his own camp; four guardian virtues wait
His nightly flumbers, and fecure his dreams.
Now dawns the light; he ranges all his thoughts
In fquare battalions, bold to meet th' attacks
Of time and chance, himself a numerous hoft,
All
eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day,
Firm as a rock, and movelefs as the centre.
In vain the harlot, pleasure, fpreads her charms,
To lull his thoughts in luxury's fair lap,
To fenfual eafe (the bane of little kings,
Monarchs whose waxen images of fouls
Are moulded into foftness); still his mind
Wears its own shape, nor can the heavenly form
Stoop to be model'd by the wild decrees
Of the mad vulgar, that unthinking herd.
He lives above the crowd, nor hears the noise Of wars and triumphs, nor regards the shouts Of popular applaufe, that empty found;
Nor feels the flying arrows of reproach,
Or fpite or envy. In himself fecure,
Wisdom his tower, and confcience is his fhield,
His peace all inward, and his joys his own.
Now my ambition fwells, my wishes foar,
This be my kingdom: fit above the globe
My rifing foul, and drefs thyfelf around
And shine in virtue's armour, climb the height
Of wisdom's lofty caftle, there refide
Safe from the smiling and the frowning world.
Yet once a day drop down a gentle look
On the great mole-hill, and with pitying eye
Survey the busy emmets round the heap,
Crouding and bustling in a thousand forms
Of strife and toil, to purchase wealth and fame,
A bubble or a duft: Then call thy thoughts
Up to thyself to feed on joys unknown,
Rich without gold, and great without renown.
HONOUR demands my fong. Forget the ground,
My generous Muse, and fit amongst the stars!
There fing the foul, that, conscious of her birth,
Lives like a native of the vital world,
Amongst these dying clods, and bears her state
Juft to herself: how nobly the maintains
Her character, fuperior to the flesh,
She wields her paffions like her limbs, and knows
The brutal powers were only born t' obey.
This is the man whom ftorms could never make Meanly complain; nor can a flattering gale Make him talk proudly: he hath no defire To read his fecret fate: yet unconcern'd And calm could meet his unborn destiny, In all its charming, or its frightful fhapes.
He that unfhrinking, and without a groan, Bears the first wound, may finish all the war With meer courageous filence, and come off Conqueror: for the man that well conceals The heavy strokes of fate, he bears them well.
He, though th' Atlantic and the Midland feas
With adverse furges meet, and rife on high
Sufpended 'twixt the winds, then rush amain
Mingled with flames, upon his fingle head,
And clouds, and stars, and thunder, firm he stands,
Secure of his beft life; unhurt, unmov'd;
And drops his lower nature, born for death.
Then from the lofty caftle of his mind
Sublime looks down, exulting, and furveys
The ruins of creation (Souls alone
Are heirs of dying worlds); a piercing glance
Shoots upwards from between his clofing lids,
To reach his birth-place, and without a figh
He bids his batter'd flesh lie gently down
Amongst his native rubbish; whilst the spirit
Breathes and flies upward, an undoubted guest
Of the third heaven, th' unruinable sky.
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