THIS day, Time winds th exhausted chain;
To run the twelvemonths length again:
I see, the old bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpaird machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less,
Will you (the Majors with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coilas fair Rachels care to-day,
And blooming Keiths engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow,
(That grandchilds cap will do to-morrow,)
And join with me a-moralizing;
This days propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
Another year has gone for ever.
And what is this days strong suggestion?
The passing moments all we rest on!
Rest onfor what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amusd with proverbd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days maya few years must
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then, is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yesall such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on his frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as Miserys woeful night.
Since then, my honourd first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th important now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Tho you, with days and honours crownd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight lifes sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale Envy to convulse),
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.