Heaven's on their wing: a moment we may wish, When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid Day stand still, Bid him drive back his car, and re-import The period past, re-give the given hour. Lorenzo, more than miracles we want; 310 Lorenzo--O for yesterdays to come! Such is the language of the man awake; His ardour such, for what oppresses thee. And is his ardour vain, Lorenzo? No; That more than miracle the gods indulge; To-day is yesterday return'd; return'd Full power'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn, And reinstate us on the rock of peace. Let it not share its predecessor's fate; Nor, like its elder sisters, die a fool. 320 Shall it evaporate in fume? fly off Fuliginous, and stain us deeper still? Shall we be poorer for the plenty pour'd? More wretched for the clemencies of Heaven? Where shall I find him? Angels! tell me where. You know him: he is near you: point him out: 326 Shall I see glories beaming from his brow? Or trace his footsteps by the rising flowers? Your golden wings, now hovering o'er him, shed Protection; now, are waving in applause To that bless'd son of foresight! lord of fate! That awful independent on to-morrow! Whose work is done; who triumphs in the past; 333 Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile; Nor, like the Parthian, wound him as they fly; That common but opprobrious lot! past hours, If not by guilt, yet wound us by their flight, If folly bounds our prospect by the grave, All feeling of futurity benumb'd; All god-like passion for eternals quench'd; 340 All relish of realities expired; Renounced all correspondence with the skies; Our freedom chain'd; quite wingless our desire; In sense dark-prison'd all that ought to soar; Prone to the centre; crawling in the dust; Dismounted every great and glorious aim; Embruted every faculty divine; Heart-buried in the rubbish of the world. The world, that gulf of souls, immortal souls, Souls elevate, angelic, wing'd with fire 350 To reach the distant skies, and triumph there On thrones, which shall not mourn their masters changed, Though we from earth; ethereal, they that fell. Such veneration due, O man, to man. Who venerate themselves, the world despise. For what, gay friend! is this escutcheon'd world, Which hangs out death in one eternal night? A night, that glooms us in the noontide ray, And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the shroud. Life's little stage is a small eminence, 360 Inch-high the grave above; that home of man, Where dwells the multitude: we gaze around; We read their monuments; we sigh; and while We sigh, we sink; and are what we deplored; Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot! Is Death at distance? No: he has been on thee;