Where the watchman in his round So your verse-man I, and clerk, 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, Wins no notice, wakes no fears. Can a truth, by all confessed Of such magnitude and weight, Grow, by being oft expressed, Trivial as a parrot's prate? Pleasure's call attention wins, New as ever seem our sins, f Though committed every day. Death and judgment, Heaven and Hell- No more move us than the bell When some stranger is interred. Ob then, ere the turf or tomb 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, Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avarif VIRG. Happy the mortal, who has traced effects THANKLESS for favours from on high, But he, not wise enough to scan Would gladly stretch life's little span. 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 woe? The cause is Conscience-Conscience oft Her tale of guilt renews: Then anxious to be longer spared 'Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear, Pay!-follow Christ, and all is paid; ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1793. De sacris autem hæc sit una sententia, ut 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 7 To live to God is to requite His love as best we may: But life, within a narrow ring Is falsely named, 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 diseased, yet nothing feel; Who deem his house an useless place, Faith, want of common sense; And ardour in the Christian race, A hypocrite's pretence? Who trample order; and the day, |