8
Who to the warning friend could say
"I'll hear thee on a future day;"
Ask him if Time confirm'd his claim,
Or that good season ever came?
Go, ask of him, whom demons urge
To leap this dark world's dizzy verge,
Who on his thorny pillow pain'd,
Sees no reprieve or pardon gain'd.
Oh! ask that dying man the price
Of one short hour of thoughtless vice;
What would he pay—what treasure give,
For one brief season more to live,
One hour to spend in anxious care,
In duty, penitence, and prayer!
Ask of the grave; a voice replies—
"No knowledge, wisdom, or device,"
Beauty, or strength possess the gloom
Where thou shalt find thy narrow home.
Delay no longer; lest thy breath
Should quiver in the sigh of death;
But inward turn thy thoughtful view,
And what thy spirit dictates—do.
