To-Day and To-Night

RUBY-FINGER'D Aurora, fair Lady of Light,
From saffron robes shaking the last shade of Night,
Call'd Phoebus, who bless'd with his sea beauty's boon,
Slow awoke, Thetis vow'd, 'twas immensely too soon.

Above the horizon his beams, circling, spread
The grey dappled clouds, fring'd transparent with red.
The breezy air rich with the perfumes of May,
While birds on the boughs chirp'd and sung in the day.

Shall man, most oblig'd, offer less to that pow'r
By whom he's endow'd, to enjoy ev'ry hour?
Yes,—pride-born Ingratitude never will pay
The thanks which are due for the gift of To-day

No,—To-morrow's the thing; To-morrow! Sloth cries—
To-morrow's the shadow which ev'ry day flies.
Death Yesterday call'd in his fools—and, To-day,
'Tis not six to four but we're had the same way.

We must laugh when we look on Time-killers's distress,
Who dress, dine, and daudle—dine, daudle, and dress.
In one senseless saunter dream Day and Night thro',
In nothing to say, and—in nothing to do.

As for thinking To-day, 'tis absurd to begin:
A head fine frizzur'd wants no finish within.
To-morrow's the wild-goose at which they take aim,
A mouthful of moonshine they get for their game.

Let us, lads, depend on Life's plain-dealing plan,
Not kill Time, but keep all alive while we can.
Day and Night too, our welcome to Beauty we'll pay,
Love equal expects both good Night and good Day.

To Night be my song then,—I honour its shades;
Fall fertile ye vapours, make Mothers of Maids.
To the end of each Day be our doings upright,
May all do the best thing they can do To-night.