When all these tyrants rest, and thou
Art warring with the mighty dead?
Revenge, ambition, scorn, and pride,
And strong desire, and fierce disdain,
The giant-brood by thee defied,

Lo! Time's resistless strokes have slain.

Yet Time, who could that race subdue, (O'erpowering strength, appeasing rage,) Leaves yet a persevering crew,

To try the failing powers of age. Vex'd by the constant call of these, Virtue awhile for conquest tries; But weary grown and fond of ease,

She makes with them a compromise: Av'rice himself she gives to rest,

But rules him with her strict commands; Bids Pity touch his torpid breast,

And Justice hold his eager hands.

Yet is there nothing men can do,
When chilling Age comes creeping on?
Cannot we yet some good pursue?
Are talents buried? genius gone?
If passions slumber in the breast,
If follies from the heart be fled;
Of laurels let us go in quest,

And place them on the poet's head.

Yes, we'll redeem the wasted time,
And to neglected studies flee;
We'll build again the lofty rhyme,
Or live, Philosophy, with thee:

VOL. II.

258

For reasoning clear, for flight sublime,

Eternal fame reward shall be ;

And to what glorious heights we'll climb,
The admiring orowd shall envying see.

Begin the song! begin the theme!

Alas! and is Invention dead?
Dream we no more the golden dream?
Is Mem'ry with her treasures fled?
-now Reason guides
The mind, sole judge in all debate;
And thus the important point decides,
For laurels, 't is, alas! too late.

Yes, 't is too late,

What is possess'd we may retain,
But for new conquests strive in vain.

Beware then, Age, that what was won,
If life's past labours, studies, views,
Be lost not, now the labour's done,

When all thy part is,-not to lose :
When thou canst toil or gain no more,
Destroy not what was gain'd before.

For, all that's gain'd of all that's good,
When time shall his weak frame destroy
(Their use then rightly understood),

Shall man, in happier state, enjoy.
Oh! argument for truth divine,
For study's cares, for virtue's strife;
To know the enjoyment will be thine,
In that renew'd, that endless life!

SIR EUSTACE GREY.(')

"Veris miscens falsa."

SENECA, in Herc. furente. (2)

(1) [This poem was composed at Muston, in the winter of 1804-5, during a great snow-storm (see Vol. L, Life, antè, p. 184.) For the Author's account of his design in the piece, see preface, antè, p. 2.]

(2) ["With truth mingling the false."-HEYWOOD, 1581.]

SIR EUSTACE GREY.

SCENE-A MAD-HOUSE

PERSONS. — VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT.

VISITOR.

I'LL know no more;-the heart is torn
By views of wo, we cannot heal;
Long shall I see these things forlorn,
And oft again their griefs shall feel,
As each upon the mind shall steal;
That wan projector's mystic style,
That lumpish idiot leering by,
That peevish idler's ceaseless wile,
And that poor maiden's half-form'd smile,
While struggling for the full-drawn sigh!—
I'll know no more.

Then speed to happier scenes thy way,

When thou hast view'd, what yet remain,

The ruins of Sir Eustace Grey,

The sport of madness, misery's prey: