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Now let us fing-Long live the king,

And Gilpio, long live he; And, when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

STANZAS,

SUBJOINED TO A BILL OF MORTALITT

FOR

THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS,

IN THE TOWN OF 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 deather appears?

No.-These were vig'rous as their Gres.

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 it's new foliage on, The Gay, the Thoughtless, I have seen,

I passd—and they were gone.

Read, ye that run! the solemn 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 infure

Forget an hour to come ;
No med’cine though it often cure,

Can always baulk the tomb.

And, Oh! that humble as my

Lot
And scorn'd as is my strain,
These truths, though known, too much forgot,
1

may not teach in vain.

So

prays your Clerk with all his heart, And ere he quits the pen,

for once to take his part And answer all-Amen!

Begs you

1788.

Quod adest, memento
Componere aquus; cætera fluminis
Ritu ferunter.
Improve the present Hour, for all beside
Is a mere Feather on a Torrent's Tide.

HORACE.

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'n ward turn his Eye!

Time, then, would seem more precious than the Joys
In which he sports away the Treasure now;
And Pray'r, more feasonable than the Noise
Of Drunkard's, or the Music-drawing Bow.

Then, doubtless, many a Triffer 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 rife no more.

Ah, self-deceiv'd! Could I, prophetic, fay,
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 airý o'er the funny Glade-
One falls-the Rest wide scatter'd with affright,
Vanish at once into the darkest Shade.'

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