ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1792. Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, Happy the mortal, who has traced effects VIRG. To their firft caufe, caft fear beneath his feet, THANKLESS for favours from on high, Man thinks he fades too foon; Though 'tis his privilege to die, But he, not wife enough to fcan Would gladly ftretch 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 repofe. Strange fondnefs of the human heart, Enamoured of its harm! Strange world, that cofts it fo much smart, And ftill has power to charm. Whence has the world her magic power? Why deem we death a foe? Recoil from weary life's beft hour, And covet longer woe? The caufe is Confcience-Confcience oft Her tale of guilt renews: Her voice is terrible though soft, Then anxious to be longer spared P 'Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear, That prompts the wish to stay: He has incurred a long arrear, And muft defpair to pay. Pay!-follow Christ, and all is paid; ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1793. De sacris autem hae sit una sententia, ut conserventur. CIC. DE LEG. But let us all concur in this one fentiment, that things facred be inviolate. He lives who lives to God alone, And all are dead befide; For other fource than God is none Whence life can be supplied. To live to God is to requite His love as beft we may: To make his precepts our delight, His promises our stay. But life, within a narrow ring Of giddy joys comprized, Can life in them deferve the name, Who only live to prove For what poor toys they can disclaim An endless life above? Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel; Much menaced, nothing dread; Have wounds, which only God can heal, Yet never afk his aid? Who deem his houfe an useless place, Faith, want of common sense; And ardour in the Chriftian race, A hypocrite's pretence? Who trample order; and the day, If fcorn of God's commands, impreffed Cn word and deed, imply The better part of man, unbleffed With life that cannot die; Such want it, and that want uncured Tillman refigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, affured Of everlafting death. Sad period to a pleasant course! Yet fo will God repay Sabbaths profaned without remorse, And mercy caft away. |