When all these tyrants rest, and thou 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, And place them on the poet's head. Yes, we'll redeem the wasted time, VOL. II. 258 For reasoning clear, for flight sublime, Eternal fame reward shall be ; And to what glorious heights we'll climb, Begin the song! begin the theme! Alas! and is Invention dead? Yes, 't is too late, What is possess'd we may retain, Beware then, Age, that what was won, When all thy part is,-not to lose : For, all that's gain'd of all that's good, Shall man, in happier state, enjoy. 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 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: |