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Like crowded forest-trees we stand,

And some are mark'd to fall;
The axe will smite at God's command,

And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,

With its new foliage on, The gay,

the thoughtless, have I seen, I pass'd—and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the awful truth,

With which I charge my page ; A worm is in the bud of youth,

And at the root of age.

No present health can health ensure

For yet an hour to come;
No med’cine, though it oft can cure,

Can always baulk the ton

And O ! that humble as my lot,

And scorn'd as is my strain, These truths, though known, too much forgot,

I may not teach in vain.

So prays your clerk with all his heart,

And ere he quits the pen,
Begs you for once to take his part,

And answer all-Amen!




Quod adest, memento
Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis
Ritu feruntur.
Improve the present hour, for all beside
Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide.

COULD T, from Heav'n inspir'd, as sure presage To whom the rising year shall prove his last, As I can number in my punctual page, And item down the victims of the past ;

How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet,
On which the press might stamp him next to die;
And, reading here his sentence, how replete
With anxious meaning, Heav'nward turn his eye!

Time then would seem more precious than the joys,
In which he sports away the treasure now;
And pray'r more seasonable than the noise
Of drunkards, or the musick-drawing bow.

Then doubtless many a trifler on the brink
Of this world's-hazardous and headlong shore,



Forc'd to a pause, would feel it good to think,
Told that his setting sun must rise no more.

Ah self-deceiv'd ! Could I prophetick say
Who next is fated, and who next to fall,
The rest might then seem privilegʻd 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-scatter'd with affright,
Vanish at once into the darkest shade.

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn’d,
Still need repeated warnings, and at last,
A thousand awful admonitions scorud,
Die self-accus'd of life run all to waste ?

Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones,
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin ;
Dewdrops may deck the turf, that hides the bones,
But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.

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Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught
Of all these sepulchres, instructors true,
That, soon or late, death also is your lot,
And the next op’ning grave may yawn for you.



- Placidaque ibi demum morte quievit. VIRG. There calm at length he breath'd his soul away.

'O MOST delightful hour by man

•Experienc'd here below,
The hour that terminates his span,

• His folly, and his woe!

• Worlds should not bribe me back to tread

• Again life's dreary waste,
“To see again my day o'erspread

• With all the gloomy past.

My home henceforth is in the skies,

*Earth, seas, and sun adieu!
*All Heav'n unfolded to my eyes,

I have no sight for you.'

So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd

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 priz'd, by that he fear'd,

He hated, hop'd, and lov'd;
Nor ever frown'd, or sad appear'd,

But when his heart had rov'd.
For he was frail, as thou or I,

And evil felt within :
But, when he felt it, heav'd a sigh,

And loath'd the thought of sin.

Such liv'd Aspasio ; and at last

up from Earth to Heav'n, The gulf of death triumphant passid,

By gales of blessing driv'n.

His joys be mine, each Reader cries,

When my last hour arrives : They shall be yours, my Verse replies,

Such only be your lives:

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