Time then would seem more precious than the joys
In which he sports away the treasure now;
And prayer more seasonable than the noise
Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.
Then doubtless many a trifler on the brink
Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore,
Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think,
Told that his setting sun must rise no more.
Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say
Who next is fated, and who next to fall,
The rest might then seem privileged to play;
But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL.
Observe the dappled foresters, how light
They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade-
One falls-the rest, wide-scattered with affright,
Vanish at once into the darkest shade.
Had we their wisdom, should we, often warned,
Still need repeated warnings, and at last,
A thousand awful admonitions scorned,
Die self-accused of life run all to waste?
Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones,
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin;
Dew-drops may deck the turf, that hides the bones,
But tears of godly grief, ne'er flow within.
Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught
Of all these sepulchres, instructers true,
That, soon or late, death also is your lot.
And the next opening grave may yawn for you.
-Placidaque ibi demum morte quievit.—Virg.
There calm at length he breathed his soul away.
"O MOST delightful hour by man
Experienced here below,
The hour that terminates his span,
His folly, and his wo!
"Worlds should not bribe me back to tread
Again life's dreary waste,
To see again my days o'erspread
With all the gloomy past.
"My home henceforth is in the skies,
Earth, seas, and sun adieu!
All heaven unfolded to mine eyes,
I have no sight for you."
So spake Aspasio, firm possessed
Of faith's supporting rod,
Then breathed his soul into its rest,
The bosom of his God.
He was a man among the few
Sincere on virtue's side;
And all his strength from Scripture drew
To hourly use applied.
That rule he prized, by that he feared,
He hated, hoped, and loved;
Nor ever frowned, or sad appeared,
But when his heart had roved.
For he was frail as thou or I,
And evil felt within:
But, when he felt it, heaved a sigh.
And loathed the thought of sin
Such lived Aspasio; and at last
Called up from earth to heaven,
The gulf of death triumphant passed,
By gales of blessing driven.
His joys be mine, each reader cries,
When my last hour arrives:
They shall be yours, my verse replies,
Such only be your lives.
Ne commonentem recta sperne.-Buchanan.
Despise not my good counsel.
He who sits from day to day,
Where the prisoned lark is hung,
Heedless of his loudest lay,
Hardly knows that he has sung.
Where the watchman in his round
Nightly lifts his voice on high,
None, accustomed to the sound,
Wakes the sooner for his cry.
So your verse-man I, and clerk,
Yearly in my song proclaim
Death at hand-yourselves his mark-
And the foe's unerring aim.
Duly at my time I come,
Publishing to all aloud
Soon the grave must be your home,
And your only suit, a shroud.
But the monitory strain,
Oft repeated in your ears,
Seems to sound too much in vain,
Winds no notice, wakes no fears.
Can a truth, by all confessed
Of such magnitude and weight
Grow, by being oft impressed.
Trivial as a parrot's prate?
Pleasure's call attention wins,
Hear it often as we may;
New as ever seem our sins,
Though committed every day.
Death and Judgment, Heaven and Hell-
These alone, so often heard,
No more move us than the bell,
When some stranger is interred.
O then, ere the turf or tomb
Cover us from every eye,
Spirit of instruction come,
Make us learn, that we must die.
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.
FOR THE YEAR 1792.
Feliz, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!
Happy the mortal, who has traced effects
To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet,
And Death and roaring Hell's voracious fires!
THANKLESS for favours from on high,
Man thinks he fades too soon;
Though 'tis his privilege to die,
Would he improve the boon.
But he, not wise enough to scan
His blest concerns aright,
Would gladly stretch life's little span
To ages, if he might.
To ages in a world of pain,
To ages, where he goes
Galled by affliction's heavy chain,
And hopeless of repose.
Strange fondness of the human heart,
Enamoured of its harm!
Strange world, that costs it so much smart, And still has power to charm.
Whence has the world her magic power?
Why deem we death a foe?
Recoil from weary life's best hour,
And covet longer wo?
The cause is Conscience-Conscience oft
Her tale of guilt renews :
Her voice is terrible though soft,
And dread of death ensues.
Then anxious to be longer spared,
Man mourns his fleeting breath:
All evils then seem light, compared
With the approach of Death.
"Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear
That prompts the wish to stay;
He has incurred a long arrear,
And must despair to pay.
Pay!-follow Christ, and all is paid:
His death your peace ensures;
Think on the grave where he was laid,
And calm descends to yours.
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