No. These were vig'rous as their fires.
Nor Plague nor Famine came ;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waves his claim.

Like crowded foreft-trees we stand,
And fome are mark'd to fall;
The axe will fmite at God's command,
And foon fhall fmite us all.

Green as the Bay-tree, ever green
With it's new foliage on,

The Gay, the Thoughtless, I have seen,
I pafs'd-and they were gone.

Read, ye that run

! the folemn truth

With which I charge my page; A Worm is in the Bud of Youth, And at the Root of Age.

No prefent 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 fcorn'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 anfwer all-Amen!

1788.

Quod adest, memento

Componere æquus; cætera fluminis

Ritu ferunter.

Improve the prefent Hour, for all befide

Is a mere Feather on a Torrent's Tide.

HORACE.

COULD I, from Heav'n infpir'd, as fure prefage To whom the rifing Year fhall prove his laft; 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 Prefs 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 Mufic-drawing Bow.

Then, doubtless, many a Trifter on the Brink
Of this World's hazardous and headlong Shore,
Forc'd to a Paufe, would feel it good to think,
Told that his fetting Sun must rise no more.

Ah, felf-deceiv'd! Could I, prophetic, fay,
Who next is fated, and who next, to fall,
The Reft might then feem privileg'd to play;
But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL.

Obferve the dappled Foresters, how light
They bound and airy o'er the funny Glade-
One falls the Reft wide fcatter'd with affright,
Vanish at once into the darkest Shade.

Had we their Wisdom, fhould we often warn'd,
Still need repeated warnings, and at last,
A thoufand awful admonitions fcorn'd,
Die felf-accus'd of life all run to waste?

Sad wale! for which no after-thrift atones :
The grave admits no cure for guilt or fin.
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 fepulchres, instructors true,
That, foon or late, Death alfo is your lot,
And the next op'ning grave may yawn

for you

1789.

-Placidáq; ibi demum morte quievit.

VIRG.

There calm, at length, he breath'd his foul away.

"OH moft delightful hour by man

"Experienc'd here below,

"The hour that terminates his fpan,

"His folly, and his woe!

"Worlds fhould not bribe me back to tread,

"Again life's dreary waste,

"To fee again my Day o'erspread "With all the gloomy Past.

"My Home henceforth is in the skies,
"Earth, Seas, and Sun adieu !
"All Heav'n unfolded to my eyes,
"I have no fight for you."