In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.

And why? Because he thinks himself 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 passed 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.

We waste, not use, our time: we breathe, not live.

Time wasted is existence, used is life:

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 loth to part. 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;

And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.

Nor death, nor life, delight us. If time past,

And time possessed, both pain us, what can please?

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.

And turn our blessings into bane. Since oft

Man must compute that age he cannot feel,

He scarce believes he's older for his years. [store Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in One disappointment sure, to crown the rest:

The disappointment of a promised hour.

[From Night Thoughts.]

NIGHT II. INSUFFICIENCY OF THE WOrld.

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours;

And ask them, what report they bore to heaven;

And how they might have borne more welcome news.

Their answers form what men experience call;

If wisdom's friend, her best; if not, worst foe.

Oh, reconcile them! Kind experience cries,

"There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs:

The more our joy, the more we know

This cancels thy complaint at once; this leaves

In act no trifle, and no blank in time.

This greatens, fills, immortalizes, all; This, the blest art of turning all to gold;

This, the good heart's prerogative, to raise

A royal tribute from the poorest hours:

Immense revenue! every moment

pays.

If nothing more than purpose in thy power;

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed:

Who does the best his circumstance allows,

Does well, acts nobly; angels could

no more.

Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint;

'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer.

Guard well thy thought; our thoughts are heard in Heaven.

[From Night Thoughts.]

NIGHT II.

THE END OF THE VIRTUOUS.

THE chamber where the good man meets his fate,

Is privileged beyond the common walk

Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

A death-bed's a detector of the heart. Here, tired dissimulation drops her mask;

Through life's grimace, that mistress of the scene!

Here, real and apparent are the same. You see the man; you see his hold on heaven.

Whatever farce the boastful hero plays,

Virtue alone has majesty in death; And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns.

the soul.

Death has no dread, but what frail

life imparts;

Nor life true joy, but what kind death improves.

Death, that absolves my birth; a

curse without it! Rich death, that realizes all my cares,

ing fire:

Ruin from man is most concealed when near, [blow. And sends the dreadful tidings in the Is this the flight of fancy? Would it were!

Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, That hideous sight, a naked human heart.