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Pregnant with all eternity can give;
Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile;
Who murders time, he crushes in the birth
A power ethereal, only not adored.

Ah! how unjust to nature and himself,
Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,
\* We censure nature for a span too short;
That span too short, we tax as tedious too;
Torture invention, all expedients tire,
To lash the ling'ring moments into speed,
And whirl us, happy riddance! from ourselves.
Art, brainless art! our furious charioteer,
For nature's voice unstifled would recall,
Drives headlong tow'rds the precipice of death—
Death, most our dread; death thus more dreadful made
O what a riddle of absurdity!
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot-wheels,
How heavily we drag the load of life!
Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain,
It makes us wander; wander earth around
To fly that tyrant, thought. As Atlas groan'd
The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour:
We cry for mercy to the next amusement;
The next amusement mortgages our fields—
Slight inconvenience! prisons hardly frown—
From hateful time if prisons set us free;
Yet when death kindly tenders us relief,
We call him cruel; years to moments shrink,
Ages to years: the telescope is turn'd,

Published June 2, 1926 by R. Edward N. New Bond Street.

To man's false opticks, from his folly false,
* Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings,
And seems to creep decrepit with his age :
Behold him, when past by; what then is seen,
But his broad pinions swifter than the winds ?
And all mankind, in contradiction strong,
Rueful—aghast—cry out on his career.

Leave to thy foes these errors, and these ills;
To nature just, their cause and cure explore.
Not short Heaven's bounty, boundless our expence;
No niggard nature; men are prodigals :
We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live :
Time wasted is existence, used is life :
And bare existence, man, to live ordain'd,
Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight :
And why? since time was given for use, not waste,
Enjoin'd to fly; with tempest, tide, and stars
To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man :
Time's use was doom'd a pleasure; waste, a pain;
That man might feel his error, if unseen;
And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure;
Not, blund'ring, split on idleness for ease.
Life's cares are comforts, such by Heaven design'd;
He that has none, must make them, or be wretched :
Cares are employments; and without employ
The soul is on the rack; the rack of rest,
To souls most adverse; action all their joy.

Here, then, the riddle mark'd above, unfolds;
Then time turns torment, when man turns a fool :
We rave, we wrestle with great nature's plan ;

Pat. June. 47796 by R. Edwards No.42 New Bond Street.