 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
37
THE FAMILY OF TIME:
OR, THE APPARITIONS OF YESTERDAY, LAST NIGHT, AND TO-MORROW.
On the Subject of Procrastination.
Written in irregular Verse.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears the palm,
That all men are about to live:
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
Dr. Young.
That all men are about to live:
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
Dr. Young.
The “darkness visible” of dawn
Dimly proclaims the dubious morn!
The clock goes—What?—As I'm alive,
Its moral finger points to five!
It strikes! I hear the lapse of time,
And rise to write the loitering rhime.
Another stroke! Like solemn Young,
I feel the “Angel” in its tongue;
The myrtled morning is come on,
And nothing for the Vase yet done!
But soft! on yonder side the table,
Comes the kind Muse, in suit of sable,
Solemn and slow she walks along,
Procrastinating song.
In allegoric robes profound
She sweeps the visionary ground.
Checks Wit's wild sally, and in sober rhime,
Summons the shades of hoary Time!
With her, on Fancy's plume I fly,
And see the feather'd progeny;
Hours, minutes, moments, rise to sight,
And all the lucid family of light.
And first, all humid with her tears,
Behold a deeply injur'd fair,
The ghost of Yesterday appears,
A weeping vision, thin as air.
Dimly proclaims the dubious morn!
The clock goes—What?—As I'm alive,
Its moral finger points to five!
It strikes! I hear the lapse of time,
And rise to write the loitering rhime.
Another stroke! Like solemn Young,
I feel the “Angel” in its tongue;
The myrtled morning is come on,
And nothing for the Vase yet done!
38
Comes the kind Muse, in suit of sable,
Solemn and slow she walks along,
Procrastinating song.
In allegoric robes profound
She sweeps the visionary ground.
Checks Wit's wild sally, and in sober rhime,
Summons the shades of hoary Time!
With her, on Fancy's plume I fly,
And see the feather'd progeny;
Hours, minutes, moments, rise to sight,
And all the lucid family of light.
And first, all humid with her tears,
Behold a deeply injur'd fair,
The ghost of Yesterday appears,
A weeping vision, thin as air.
The sick sigh from her bosom breaks,
And shivering in her shroud she stands,
Pale as the scroll within her hands,
And thus in accents, tremulous, she speaks:
“At earliest peep of orient morn,
“With fair Aurora was I born;
“I help'd Hyperion to his horse,
“And ran with Sol his radiant course;
“Twelve fleeting hours I drew my breath,
“Then sunk into the arms of Death!
“Soon as my light of life was fled,
“A sister reigned in my stead;
“Time, with his glass, stood pensive by,
“And gave me to Eternity.
“'Twas then that to the sphere of day,
““Day without night,” I bent my way;
“Th' Immortal call'd me, and I stood
“With those that fell before the flood,
“The first-born of my scythe-crown'd Sire,
“In pure and primitive attire;
“With the first sun-beam of the sky,
“And ev'ry pendent orb on high:
“With these, and all the race of light,
“Fast by the throne I stood in sight;
“My great progenitors I saw,
“And felt a reverential awe:
“The trumpet sounded—every knee
“Was bent in solemn sanctity,
“Strait YESTERDAY was call'd aloud!
“I fearful pass'd the shadowy crowd,
“Then bow'd before the heav'nly powers,
“Attended by my kindred hours.
“Unfold the scroll,” an Angel cry'd,
I op'd the page—the Angel sigh'd!
“And is that all thou can'st display,
“Unhappy shade of YESTERDAY?
“What do I see? (pale ghost!) a train
“Of follies light, of fashions vain,
“Of actions little, passions mean,
“Of dealings dark, of deeds obscene,
“Of havock, horror, lucre, lust,
“Of fractur'd faith and broken trust,
“Of villainy in dark disguise,
“Of widows groans, of orphans sighs:
“Oh, what a register is here!”
The Angel dropt an Angel's tear;
Then paus'd. Poor Yesterday withdrew.
Another ghost appear'd in view;
Dusky as Death the robe it wore,
Its air distrait, its garment tore:
“And what art thou? the Angel said,
“Speak, Stygian vision, funeral shade.
“Night is my name,” the spectre cry'd,
“At the first tinge of morn I died.
“My sable catalogue behold,
“Sacred to darkness and to gold;
“A sepulchre of sin my book,
“'Twill wound Day's “pitying eye” to look:
“Seductions, murders, wound the sight,
“Ah! did you know what pass'd last light;
“The deeds which mark the midnight hour—”
“Enough: Retire! replied the Power;
“Once more let Yesterday appear.”
She came, and dropt the conscious tear,
Then spoke: “This leaf, O Angel, read,
“I'm not without one gen'rous deed.
“On this reverse you may behold
“A nobler use of light, and gold,
“Some minutes in memorial rise,
“And of my hours some few were wise.
“Close on this corner of the leaf,
“Observe a mark like that of Grief;
“But 'twas not Grief which caus'd this tear,
“'Twas Gratitude, 'twas Joy, wept there.
“From points of time, O take my best,
“'Tis Mercy's to o'erlook the rest.”
And shivering in her shroud she stands,
Pale as the scroll within her hands,
And thus in accents, tremulous, she speaks:
39
“With fair Aurora was I born;
“I help'd Hyperion to his horse,
“And ran with Sol his radiant course;
“Twelve fleeting hours I drew my breath,
“Then sunk into the arms of Death!
“Soon as my light of life was fled,
“A sister reigned in my stead;
“Time, with his glass, stood pensive by,
“And gave me to Eternity.
“'Twas then that to the sphere of day,
““Day without night,” I bent my way;
“Th' Immortal call'd me, and I stood
“With those that fell before the flood,
“The first-born of my scythe-crown'd Sire,
“In pure and primitive attire;
“With the first sun-beam of the sky,
“And ev'ry pendent orb on high:
“With these, and all the race of light,
“Fast by the throne I stood in sight;
“My great progenitors I saw,
“And felt a reverential awe:
40
“Was bent in solemn sanctity,
“Strait YESTERDAY was call'd aloud!
“I fearful pass'd the shadowy crowd,
“Then bow'd before the heav'nly powers,
“Attended by my kindred hours.
“Unfold the scroll,” an Angel cry'd,
I op'd the page—the Angel sigh'd!
“And is that all thou can'st display,
“Unhappy shade of YESTERDAY?
“What do I see? (pale ghost!) a train
“Of follies light, of fashions vain,
“Of actions little, passions mean,
“Of dealings dark, of deeds obscene,
“Of havock, horror, lucre, lust,
“Of fractur'd faith and broken trust,
“Of villainy in dark disguise,
“Of widows groans, of orphans sighs:
“Oh, what a register is here!”
The Angel dropt an Angel's tear;
Then paus'd. Poor Yesterday withdrew.
Another ghost appear'd in view;
41
Its air distrait, its garment tore:
“And what art thou? the Angel said,
“Speak, Stygian vision, funeral shade.
“Night is my name,” the spectre cry'd,
“At the first tinge of morn I died.
“My sable catalogue behold,
“Sacred to darkness and to gold;
“A sepulchre of sin my book,
“'Twill wound Day's “pitying eye” to look:
“Seductions, murders, wound the sight,
“Ah! did you know what pass'd last light;
“The deeds which mark the midnight hour—”
“Enough: Retire! replied the Power;
“Once more let Yesterday appear.”
She came, and dropt the conscious tear,
Then spoke: “This leaf, O Angel, read,
“I'm not without one gen'rous deed.
“On this reverse you may behold
“A nobler use of light, and gold,
“Some minutes in memorial rise,
“And of my hours some few were wise.
42
“Observe a mark like that of Grief;
“But 'twas not Grief which caus'd this tear,
“'Twas Gratitude, 'twas Joy, wept there.
“From points of time, O take my best,
“'Tis Mercy's to o'erlook the rest.”
“Nor be extreme, said Night, to mark
“All the transactions of the dark:
“Tho' the assassin sought my aid,
“And robbers lurk'd beneath my shade;
“Tho' Murder at my stillest hour
“Drew the dire blade, and blest my power;
“Tho', when in ebon spheres enthron'd,
“I saw the virtues half postpon'd,
“Saw Poverty by Wealth forgot,
“And skreen'd the knave from being caught;
“Yet in my list some graces flow:
“Permit me, Chief, th' account to show,
“Sketch'd, Seraph, in this page you trace
“Some lineaments divine of grace;
“Here, midnight prayers are written down,
“While men were with their God alone;
“At the twelfth hour, a spirit blest,
“Unmurmuring sought the realms of rest:
“Pity, a starving creature fed,
“And gave the wanderer a bed.
“About the noon of my domain,
“While slept th' insensible and vain,
“A good man broke his own repose,
“To mitigate another's woes,
“Unseen he blest my kind disguise,
“And paid me for my former sighs;
“Silent he sat beside the sickly bed,
“And sooth'd the sorrowing heart, and held the throbbing head.”
The Angel heard benign. The roseate glow
Suffus'd his cheek, and tears began to flow;
Charm'd with th' account that Night had giv'n,
Then grateful fix'd his starry eyes on Heav'n.
While thus he stood in thought profound,
A sacred silence breathing round,
Up rose a venerable Seer,
To comment on the wasting year.
“Alas! no cause for me to boast,
“I am the DAY the Roman lost;
“Some good, much ill, will always go
“To chequer every hour below.
“Some flying centuries are past,
“O Angel, since I breath'd my last;
“Like YESTERDAY's, it was my fate,
“To see the world procrastinate;
“Men vow'd To-morrow's sun should see
“A general propriety;
“To-morrow rogues were to be just,
“Thus all was universal trust;
“TO-MORROW should the miser lend,
“And without usury be a friend;
“The prude, the rake, should faithful prove,
“And live a life of mutual love.
“In short, TO-MORROW should be blest
“With all that's noblest, fairest, best.
“Indeed, TO-DAY, folks were so hurried
“By passion, pleasure, business, flurried,
“Ladies had such a world to do,
“Such waggon-loads of matter new;
“And men so press'd a different way,
“All begg'd, alas! another day,
“To carry on their usual cares,
“And sure twelve hours could break no squares;
“So high and low, and rich and poor,
“Push'd off amendment—one day more.
“Blest revolution! blessed morrow
“All hail, the fall of sin and sorrow!
“Soon as I dy'd, my sister NIGHT
“Usurp'd the sphere of former light,
“Then languish'd at th' approaching morn,
“And lo, the promis'd morrow born!
“Fresh from the ruddy East she sprung,
“Earth, seas, and air, her triumph sung,
“In sunny vestments blithe she came,
“Like me in every thing but name.
“The hist'ry of her actions spread,
“Discover'd scarce one folly dead,
“Nor scarce one rising virtue born,
“But many a promis'd fair she brought,
“With many a reforming thought;
“Men were to mend the following morn;
“This following morn then rose to view,
“Another promise broke, another made anew.
“What then can we, Time's children, say?
“But tell thy tale, pale YESTERDAY!
“Hear the sad narrative again,
“Augmenting fraud, augmenting pain.
“From first to last, throughout the nation,
“Tis all, alas! Procrastination.
“All the transactions of the dark:
“Tho' the assassin sought my aid,
“And robbers lurk'd beneath my shade;
“Tho' Murder at my stillest hour
“Drew the dire blade, and blest my power;
“Tho', when in ebon spheres enthron'd,
“I saw the virtues half postpon'd,
“Saw Poverty by Wealth forgot,
“And skreen'd the knave from being caught;
“Yet in my list some graces flow:
“Permit me, Chief, th' account to show,
“Sketch'd, Seraph, in this page you trace
“Some lineaments divine of grace;
43
“While men were with their God alone;
“At the twelfth hour, a spirit blest,
“Unmurmuring sought the realms of rest:
“Pity, a starving creature fed,
“And gave the wanderer a bed.
“About the noon of my domain,
“While slept th' insensible and vain,
“A good man broke his own repose,
“To mitigate another's woes,
“Unseen he blest my kind disguise,
“And paid me for my former sighs;
“Silent he sat beside the sickly bed,
“And sooth'd the sorrowing heart, and held the throbbing head.”
The Angel heard benign. The roseate glow
Suffus'd his cheek, and tears began to flow;
Charm'd with th' account that Night had giv'n,
Then grateful fix'd his starry eyes on Heav'n.
While thus he stood in thought profound,
A sacred silence breathing round,
44
To comment on the wasting year.
“Alas! no cause for me to boast,
“I am the DAY the Roman lost;
“Some good, much ill, will always go
“To chequer every hour below.
“Some flying centuries are past,
“O Angel, since I breath'd my last;
“Like YESTERDAY's, it was my fate,
“To see the world procrastinate;
“Men vow'd To-morrow's sun should see
“A general propriety;
“To-morrow rogues were to be just,
“Thus all was universal trust;
“TO-MORROW should the miser lend,
“And without usury be a friend;
“The prude, the rake, should faithful prove,
“And live a life of mutual love.
“In short, TO-MORROW should be blest
“With all that's noblest, fairest, best.
“Indeed, TO-DAY, folks were so hurried
“By passion, pleasure, business, flurried,
45
“Such waggon-loads of matter new;
“And men so press'd a different way,
“All begg'd, alas! another day,
“To carry on their usual cares,
“And sure twelve hours could break no squares;
“So high and low, and rich and poor,
“Push'd off amendment—one day more.
“Blest revolution! blessed morrow
“All hail, the fall of sin and sorrow!
“Soon as I dy'd, my sister NIGHT
“Usurp'd the sphere of former light,
“Then languish'd at th' approaching morn,
“And lo, the promis'd morrow born!
“Fresh from the ruddy East she sprung,
“Earth, seas, and air, her triumph sung,
“In sunny vestments blithe she came,
“Like me in every thing but name.
“The hist'ry of her actions spread,
“Discover'd scarce one folly dead,
“Nor scarce one rising virtue born,
46
“With many a reforming thought;
“Men were to mend the following morn;
“This following morn then rose to view,
“Another promise broke, another made anew.
“What then can we, Time's children, say?
“But tell thy tale, pale YESTERDAY!
“Hear the sad narrative again,
“Augmenting fraud, augmenting pain.
“From first to last, throughout the nation,
“Tis all, alas! Procrastination.
Thus spake the Sage, and went his way,
And leaves to me the moral of the day.
Behold experience point the vain command,
Behold Reluctance chain the ling'ring hand.
In proof of human brevity,
Silent and swift the seasons fly:
The sun, the moon, are form'd to show
The constant flux of things below;
Ocean and Earth assist the plan,
And press their maxims upon man;
The closing night, th' unfolding day,
Denote the perils of delay.
Yet stop not here:—another line
Affords a subject more divine:
Hail'd be this theme of Miller's urn,
In which a purer flame may burn.
Upon this verdant shrine to day,
One pious offering let us lay;
Nor you, ye gayer Muses, sneer,
Tho' holiest incense we burn here.
To-day, the solemn thoughts invite,
I feel their fervor as I write;
The hours of Lent, we all agree,
Appeal to man's humility,
Increase Procrastination's blame,
And change her folly into shame.
Then, oh! by all a God inspires,
By all a Christian's graceful fires,
By all which to the soul is dear,
The holy sigh, the heav'nly tear,
Forgive the Poet, if his tuneful care
Attempts this once a sacred wreath to wear;
If on this serious day he tries his art
To win th' immortal myrtle—of THE HEART.
And leaves to me the moral of the day.
Behold experience point the vain command,
Behold Reluctance chain the ling'ring hand.
In proof of human brevity,
Silent and swift the seasons fly:
The sun, the moon, are form'd to show
The constant flux of things below;
Ocean and Earth assist the plan,
And press their maxims upon man;
47
Denote the perils of delay.
Yet stop not here:—another line
Affords a subject more divine:
Hail'd be this theme of Miller's urn,
In which a purer flame may burn.
Upon this verdant shrine to day,
One pious offering let us lay;
Nor you, ye gayer Muses, sneer,
Tho' holiest incense we burn here.
To-day, the solemn thoughts invite,
I feel their fervor as I write;
The hours of Lent, we all agree,
Appeal to man's humility,
Increase Procrastination's blame,
And change her folly into shame.
Then, oh! by all a God inspires,
By all a Christian's graceful fires,
By all which to the soul is dear,
The holy sigh, the heav'nly tear,
48
Attempts this once a sacred wreath to wear;
If on this serious day he tries his art
To win th' immortal myrtle—of THE HEART.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |