Ah! what is death, when deeds like his, thus claim The brave man's homage, and immortal fame! [297] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, October 17, 1787, introduced as follows: "Mr. BAILEY, The subsequent lines were written two or three years after the event that occasioned them, but have never been printed. If you think them in any degree worthy of the memory of the patriotic young officer they attempt to celebrate (and whose death has been so deeply regretted throughout America) I must request you to insert them in your Journal. A. B." The 1788 edition prints the poem with this title: "To the Memory of the brave, accomplished and patriotic Col. JOHN LAURENS, Who in the 27th year of his age, was killed in an engagement with a detachment of the British from Charleston, near the river Cambahee, in South Carolina, _August 1782_." The text follows the edition of 1809. [298] In 1780 Laurens was sent by Congress on a mission to France for a loan and supplies, in which he was successful. ON THE VICISSITUDES OF THINGS[299] "The constant lapse of rolling years Awakes our hopes, provokes our fears Of something yet unknown; We saw the last year pass away, But who, that lives can safely say, The next shall be his own?" So hundreds talk--and thousands more Descant their moral doctrines o'er; And when the preaching's done, Each goes his various, wonted way, To labour some, and some to play-- So goes the folly on. How swift the vagrant seasons fly; They're hardly born before they die, Yet in their wild career, Like atoms round the rapid wheel, We seem the same, though changing still, Mere reptiles of a year. Some haste to seek a wealthy bride, Some, rhymes to make on one that died; And millions curse the day, When first in Hymen's silken bands The parson joined mistaken hands, And bade the bride obey. While sad Amelia vents her sighs, In epitaphs and elegies, For her departed dear, Who would suppose the muffled bell, And mourning gowns, were meant to tell, Her grief will last--a year? In folly's path how many meet-- What hosts will live to lie and cheat-- How many empty pates May, in this wise, eventful year, In native dignity appear To manage Rising States! How vain to sigh!--the wheel must on And straws are to the whirlpool drawn, With ships of gallant mien-- What has been once, may time restore; What now exists, has been before-- Years only change the scene. In endless circles all things move; Below, about, far off, above, This motion all attain-- If Folly's self should flit away, She would return some New year's day, With millions in her train.