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, But when he felt it heav'd a sigh, Such liv'd Aspasio; and at last His joys be mine, each Reader cries, They shall be yours, my verse replies, ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1790. Ne commonentem recta sperne. Buchanan. Despise not my good counsel. HE who sits from day to day, Hardly knows that he has sung. Where the watchman in his round So your verseman I and clerk, And the foes unerring aim. Duly at my time I come, Publishing to all aloud— Soon the grave must be your home, But the monitory strain, Oft repeated in your ears, Seems to sound too much in vain, Wins no notice, wakes no fears. Can a truth, by all confess'd Pleasure's call attention wins, Death and Judgment, Heaven and Hell- 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. Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, Happy the mortal, who has trac'd effects THANKLESS for favours from on high But he, not wise enough to scan To ages in a world of pain, To ages, where he goes Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain, And hopeless of repose. Strange fondness of the human heart, Enamour'd of its harm! Strange world, that costs it so much smart, And still has pow'r to charm. Virg. Whence has the world her magick pow'r? 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, Then, anxious to be longer spar'd, 'Tis Judgment shakes him, there's the fear That prompts the wish to stay: He has incurr'd a long arrear, Pay!-follow Christ, and all is paid. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1793. De sacris autem hoc sic una sententia, ul conserventur. Cic. de Leg. But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things sacred be inviolate. He lives, who lives to God alone And all are dead beside; For other source than God is none To live to God is to requite But life, within a narrow ring Is falsely nam'd, and no such thing, Can life in them deserve the name, Who only live to prove For what poor toys they can disclaim Who much diseas'd, yet nothing feel; Have wounds, which only God can heal, |