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And then, where are we? where, LORENZO, then
Thy sports—thy pomps?—I grant thee, in a state
Not unambitious; in the ruffled shroud,
Thy parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath:
Has death his fopperies? then well may life
Put on her plume, and in her rainbow shine.

Ye well-array'd! ye lilies of our land!
Ye lilies male! who neither toil, nor spin,
As sister lilies might;—if not so wise
As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight!
Ye delicate! who nothing can support,
Yourselves most insupportable! for whom
The winter rose must blow, the sun put on
A brighter beam in Leo, silky-soft
Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid;
And other worlds send odours, sauce, and song,
And robes, and notions framed in foreign looms!
O ye LORENZOS of our age! who deem
One moment unamused, a misery
Not made for feeble man; who call aloud
For every bauble, drivell'd o'er by sense,
For rattles and conceits of every cast,
For change of follies and relays of joy,
To drag your patience through the tedious length
Of a short winter's day—say—sages; say
Wit's oracles; say—dreamers of gay dreams;
How will you weather an eternal night,
Where such expedients fail?

*O treacherous conscience! while she seems to sleep
On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song!*

W.B.

Not on those terms was time, heaven's stranger, sent
On his important embassy to man.

LORENZO! NO: on the long-destined hour,
From everlasting ages growing ripe,
That memorable hour of wondrous birth,
When the DREAD SIRE, on emanation bent,
And big with nature, rising in his might,
Call'd forth creation, for then time was born,
By godhead streaming through a thousand worlds;
Not on those terms, from the great days of heaven,
From old eternity's mysterious orb,
Was time cut off, and cast beneath the skies;
The skies, which watch him in his new abode,

* Measuring his motions by revolving spheres;

That horologe machinery divine:
Hours, days, and months, and years, his children play,
Like numerous wings, around him, as he flies:
Or rather, as unequal plumes they shape
His ample pinions, swift as darted flame,
To gain his goal, to reach his ancient rest,
And join anew eternity his sire;
In his immutability to nest,
When worlds, that count his circles now, unhinged,
Fate the loud signal sounding, headlong rush
To timeless night and chaos, whence they rose.

Why spur the speedy ? why with levities
New-wing thy short, short day's too rapid flight?
Know'st thou, or what thou dost, or what is done ?
Man flies from time, and time from man, too soon
In sad divorce this double flight must end:

And then, where are we ? where, LORENZO, then
Thy sports—thy pomps?—I grant thee, in a state
Not unambitious; in the ruffled shroud,
Thy parian tomb's triumphant arch beneath:
Has death his fopperies ? then well may life
Put on her plume, and in her rainbow shine.

Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid:
And other worlds send odours, sauce, and song,
And robes, and notions framed in foreign looms!

* O treacherous conscience! while she seems to sleep
On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song:

Yale Center for British Art, 2010

B1978.43.1354 ba-obj-2277-0001