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ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1792.

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!

VIRG.

Happy the mortal, who has trac'd effects
To their first cause, cast Fear beneath his feet,
And Death, and roaring Hell's voracious fires!

THANKLESS for favours from on high,

Man thinks he fades too soon;

Though 'tis his privilege to die,

Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scan

His best concerns aright, Would gladly stretch life's little span

To ages, if he might.

To ages,

10

Το ages in a world of pain,

where he goes Gall’d by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart,

Enamour'd of it's harm!

Strange world, that costs it so much smart,

And still has pow'r to charm.

Whence has the world her magic pow'r?

Why deem we death a foe? Recoil from weary life's best hour,

And covet longer wo?

20

The cause is Conscience-Conscience oft

Her tale of guilt renews:
Her voice is terrible though soft,

And dread of death ensues.

Then anxious to be longer spar'd

Man mourns his fleeting breath: All evils then seem light, compar'd

With the approach of Death.

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'Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear,

That prompts the wish to stay: He has incurr'd a long arrear,

And must despair to pay.

Pay!--follow Christ, and all is paid;

His death your peace ensures ; Think on the

grave

where he was laid, And calm descend to your's.

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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

Whence life can be supplied.

To live to God is to requite

His love as best we may:
To make his precepts our delight,

His promises our stay.

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But life, within a narrow ring

Of giddy joys compris’d,
Is falsely nam’d, and no such thing,

But rather death disguis’d.

Can life in them deserve the name,

Who only live to prove
For what poor toys they can disclaim

An endless life above?

Who much diseasd, yet nothing feel;

Much menac'd, nothing dread;
Have wounds, which only God can heal,

Yet never ask his aid?

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Who deem his house a useless place;

Faith, want of common sense; And ardour in the Christian race,

A hypocrite's pretence?

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