will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,

add to our date one minute more?

a few days may—a few years must—

repose us in the silent dust.

then, is it wise to damp our bliss?

yes—all 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 misery's woeful night.

since then, my honour'd 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 crown'd,

witness that filial circle round,

(a sight life's sorrows to repulse,

a sight pale envy to convulse),

others now im your chief regard;

yourself, you wait your bright reward.