Be wise to-day : 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, “ That all men are about to live,”--
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel: and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise ;
At least, their own; their future selves applaud.
How excellent that life—they ne'er will lead !
Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails,
That lodged in fate's to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool !
And scarce in human wisdom, to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that through every stage: when young, indeed,
In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves; and re-resolves; then, dies the same.

And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves ; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden

dread. But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close, where, past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing, no scar the sky retains ; The parted wave no furrow from the keel ;So dies in human hearts the thought of death, E'en with the tender tear which Nature sheds O'er those we love,—we drop it in their grave.

-Young.