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No.—These were vig'rous as their Gires.

Nor Plague nor Famiae came ; This annual tribute Death requires,

And never waves his claim.

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 it's new foliage on, The Gay, the Thoughtless, I have seen,

I pass’d_and they were gone.

Read, ye that run! the solemn 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 infure

Forget an hour to come ;
No med'cine though it often cure,

Can always baulk the tomb.

And, Oh! that humble as my Lot
And scorn'd as is


strain, These truths, though known, too much forgot, I may not teach in vain.

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 aquus; cætera fluminis
Ritu ferunter.
Improve the present Hour, for all beside
Is a mere Feather on a Torrent's Tide.


Could I, from Heav'n inspir’d, as sure presage
To whom the rising Year shall prove his lalt;
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'n ward turn his Eye!

Time, then, would feem more precious than the Joys
In which he sports away the Treasure now;
And Pray'r, more feasonable than the Noise
Of Drunkard's, or the Music-drawing Bow.


Then, doubtless,


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 rife no more.

Ah, self-deceiv'd! Could I, prophetic, fay,
Who next is fated, and who next, to fall,
The Rest might then seem privileg'd to play;
But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL

Observe the dappled Foresters, how light
They bound and airy o'er the funny 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 scorn'd,
Die self-accus'd of life all run to waste?

Sad walle! for which no after-thrift atones :

grave admits no cure for guilt or fin. 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 fepulchres, instructors true,
That, foon or late, Death also is your lot,
And the next op'ning grave may yawn for you.


- Placidag; ibi demum morte quievil.


There calm, at length, he breath’d his soul away.

“Oh moft 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 Palt.

“ My Home henceforth is in the skies,

“ Earth, Seas, and Sun adieu ! 6 All Heav'n unfolded to my eyes,

“ I have no light for you."

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