Original poems on several subjects In two volumes. By William Stevenson |
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Early-rising and its Opposite compared. |
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 | Original poems on several subjects |  |
139
Early-rising and its Opposite compared.
For want of something else to do,
Some plan of action to pursue,
How many doze away their time,
Nor think they perpetrate a crime!
With bare existence ah! content,
Behold their years and lustrums spent!
If you no glaring sins commit,
Thank not yourselves, but sleep, for it.
Stocks too, and stones, might merit claim,
Were you here to contend for fame.
Howe'er we draw alternate breath,
Sleep's but a temporary death.
The sleeper then, whoe'er he be,
A murderer is in degree;
A murderer of what in vain
We would recall to life again,
Minutes, hours, days, months, years:—alas!
Can man more fatally transgress?
Murder what, were it rightly us'd,
From mean pursuits our passions loos'd,
Whether late hir'd, or at eleven
,
Our service would reward with Heaven!
Up, sleeper! then; who knows what hour,
God may, omnipotent in pow'r,
Make meritorious (no mean prize)
Of life immortal, and the skies.
If sound in body and in mind,
A state which still the temp'rate find,
Mankind fallaciously would use
The merit ev'n of an excuse.
Nature demands but little rest,
Howe'er with daily toils opprest;
He then that lengthens out repose,
Her into much disorder throws;
O'er the blunt sense a torpor spreads,
Which more than death the wise man dreads;
Unfits us to perform our parts,
With clear prompt heads, and cheerful hearts;
To grace that rank or state, in which
Men to be great affect, or rich;
Unmans the spirit, born to soar
Those heights but Newton soar'd before;
Unbraces ev'ry nerve of strength,
And quite enfeebles us at length.
Some plan of action to pursue,
How many doze away their time,
Nor think they perpetrate a crime!
With bare existence ah! content,
Behold their years and lustrums spent!
If you no glaring sins commit,
Thank not yourselves, but sleep, for it.
Stocks too, and stones, might merit claim,
Were you here to contend for fame.
Howe'er we draw alternate breath,
Sleep's but a temporary death.
The sleeper then, whoe'er he be,
A murderer is in degree;
A murderer of what in vain
We would recall to life again,
Minutes, hours, days, months, years:—alas!
Can man more fatally transgress?
Murder what, were it rightly us'd,
From mean pursuits our passions loos'd,
140
Our service would reward with Heaven!
Up, sleeper! then; who knows what hour,
God may, omnipotent in pow'r,
Make meritorious (no mean prize)
Of life immortal, and the skies.
If sound in body and in mind,
A state which still the temp'rate find,
Mankind fallaciously would use
The merit ev'n of an excuse.
Nature demands but little rest,
Howe'er with daily toils opprest;
He then that lengthens out repose,
Her into much disorder throws;
O'er the blunt sense a torpor spreads,
Which more than death the wise man dreads;
Unfits us to perform our parts,
With clear prompt heads, and cheerful hearts;
To grace that rank or state, in which
Men to be great affect, or rich;
Unmans the spirit, born to soar
Those heights but Newton soar'd before;
141
And quite enfeebles us at length.
Your moralists in theory say,
“Why should the night encroach on day?
“It, sure, looks somehow like a crime,
“To live but half our destin'd time;
“To sleep, each manly care dismist,
“Is not to live, but to exist.
“Life at the best is but a span,
“Yet that how oft curtail'd by man!
“Life's unkind shortness we lament,
“Yet make it shorter by consent;
“Lose hours, and months, and years, in sleep,
“Nor o'er them, like the Roman, weep.
“Can man more foolishly behave,
“Shortly to slumber in the grave,
“Where in dread rueful calm he may
“Ages with reptiles doze away,
“Till both eternally dissever,
“Man rous'd by Fate to wake for ever?
“How worse than madmen we behave,
“Daily our bed to make our grave!
“Why should the night encroach on day?
“It, sure, looks somehow like a crime,
“To live but half our destin'd time;
“To sleep, each manly care dismist,
“Is not to live, but to exist.
“Life at the best is but a span,
“Yet that how oft curtail'd by man!
“Life's unkind shortness we lament,
“Yet make it shorter by consent;
“Lose hours, and months, and years, in sleep,
“Nor o'er them, like the Roman, weep.
“Can man more foolishly behave,
“Shortly to slumber in the grave,
“Where in dread rueful calm he may
“Ages with reptiles doze away,
“Till both eternally dissever,
“Man rous'd by Fate to wake for ever?
“How worse than madmen we behave,
“Daily our bed to make our grave!
“Nor in this view alone we err,
“While sleeping we to life prefer.
“Time's a vast loan to mortals lent,
“Which but discreetly should be spent;
“Good works the int'rest Heav'n demands,
“A wakeful eye and active hands:
“He then that slumbers time away,
“Refuses his arrears to pay;
“(Arrears that, with just rigour sought,
“Would make poor mortals worse than nought)
“He obstinately shuts his eyes,
“And wakes a bankrupt to the skies.”
“While sleeping we to life prefer.
142
“Which but discreetly should be spent;
“Good works the int'rest Heav'n demands,
“A wakeful eye and active hands:
“He then that slumbers time away,
“Refuses his arrears to pay;
“(Arrears that, with just rigour sought,
“Would make poor mortals worse than nought)
“He obstinately shuts his eyes,
“And wakes a bankrupt to the skies.”
How speciously the story told!
Reverse the medal, and behold!
To rise with the first matin-song,
Is life officious to prolong.
And what is life, in perfect beauty,
A tract of swerving from our duty?
Man then by waking nothing wins,
But swells his catalogue of sins;
Adds deeper crimson to his guilt,
And drives the dagger to the hilt:
For, soon as wakers we commence,
Reason we slight, and live to sense.
Besides, no medium we can keep,
We must be wicked, or must sleep.
Reverse the medal, and behold!
To rise with the first matin-song,
Is life officious to prolong.
And what is life, in perfect beauty,
A tract of swerving from our duty?
Man then by waking nothing wins,
But swells his catalogue of sins;
Adds deeper crimson to his guilt,
And drives the dagger to the hilt:
For, soon as wakers we commence,
Reason we slight, and live to sense.
Besides, no medium we can keep,
We must be wicked, or must sleep.
143
Soon as Sleep's opiate leaves his eyes,
M---s---n's astir to gain the prize,
The prize, which orphans' tears bedew,
Circled with wreaths of deadly yew;
Where baneful plants and herbs arise,
And the pale wither'd laurel dies;
Which Satan, while base Lucre twines,
For his much honour'd brow designs,
(What earthly master so caressing?)
The prize of pinching and distressing.
Around him misers still we trace,
A bachelor, detested race,
Whom gold makes impotent, by it
For Earth, as well as Heav'n, unfit.
Yet better, from chaste love of pelf,
One sordid wretch should starve himself,
Than likewise with vile, curs'd pretence,
Starve others in a double sense.
M---s---n's astir to gain the prize,
The prize, which orphans' tears bedew,
Circled with wreaths of deadly yew;
Where baneful plants and herbs arise,
And the pale wither'd laurel dies;
Which Satan, while base Lucre twines,
For his much honour'd brow designs,
(What earthly master so caressing?)
The prize of pinching and distressing.
Around him misers still we trace,
A bachelor, detested race,
Whom gold makes impotent, by it
For Earth, as well as Heav'n, unfit.
Yet better, from chaste love of pelf,
One sordid wretch should starve himself,
Than likewise with vile, curs'd pretence,
Starve others in a double sense.
| Original poems on several subjects | |