And Spring's new months his train adorn; The other seasons were unborn. Known by the Gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause. O'er a low trunk his arm he laid (Where since his hours a dial made); Then leaning heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of fate : Since Body from the parent Earth, And Soul from Jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they first began: But since their union makes the Man, Till Jove and Earth shall part these two, To Care, who join'd them, Man is due. He said, and sprung with swift career To trace a circle for the year; Where ever since the seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel. 'Tis well, said Jove, and for consent, Thund'ring he shook the firmament. Our umpire Time shall have his way; With Care I let the creature stay: Let bus'ness vex him, av'rice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion speak, And want afflict, and sickness break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy distract, and sorrow kill. Till arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long-destructive blow; And wasted Man whose quick decay THE IGNORANCE OF MAN. Behold yon new-born infant griev'd Aloud the speechless suppliant cries, And utters, as it can, The woes that in its bosom rise, That infant, whose advancing hour (Sad proof of sin's transmissive power!) That infant, Lord! am I. A childhood yet my thoughts confess, Author of good! to thee I turn; Alone can all my wants discern, O let thy fear within me dwell, And O! by Error's force subdu'd, Not to my wish but to my want, Unask'd, what good thou knowest, grant; STANZAS ON MORTALITY, For the Year 1788. Quod adest, memento Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis Ritu feruntur HOR. Improve the present hour, for all beside Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage And item down the victims of the past; How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet, On which the press might stamp him next to die; And, reading here his sentence, how replete With anxious meaning, heaven-ward turn his eye! Time then would seem more precious than the joys, Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say Observe the dappled foresters, how light Had we their wisdom, should we, often warned, Sad waste! for which no after thrift atones: Learn then, ye living by the mouths be taught That, soon or late, death also is your lot, |