And strangers to the air of courts,

Both in their toils and at their sports.
The happiness of answer'd pray'rs,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.

If they who on thy state attend, Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, "Tis but the natural effect

Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than queen,
Who is belov'd where never seen.

HYMN,

For the use of the Sunday School at Olney.
HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r
In heav'n thy dwelling place,
From infants made the publick care,
And taught to seek thy face.

Thanks for thy word and for thy day,

And grant us, we implore,

Never to waste, in sinful play

Thy holy sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear-but O impart
To each desires sincere,

That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage
Of older far than we,

What hope that at our heedless age,

Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take
Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,

A sun that ne'er declines,

And be thy mercies shower'd on those,
Who plac'd us where it shines.

STANZAS

Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the Parish of All-Saints, Northampton,* Anno Domini 1787.

Pallida Mors, æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas Regumque turres.

Horace.

Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door
Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.

WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run

The Nen's barge-laden wave,

All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.

Was man, (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?

Did famine or did plague prevail,

That so much death appears ?

* Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton.

No; nese were vig'rous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine 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 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 balk the tomb.

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!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1788

Quod adest, memento

Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis

Ritu ferunter.

Horace.

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 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 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 sunny gladeOne 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 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 op'ning grave may yawn for you.