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Had we their Wisdom, should we often warn’d,
Still need repeated warnings, and at last,
A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,
Die self-accus'd of life all run to waste?

Sad wase! for which no after-thrift atones :
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin.
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, soon or late, Death also is your lot,
And the next op’ning grave may yawn

for

you.

1789.

-- Placidáq; ibi demùm morte quievil.

VIRG.

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

" Oh most delightful hour by man

“ Experienc'd here below, “ The hour that terminates his span,

“ His folly, and his woe!

« Worlds should not bribe me back to tread,

“ Again life's dreary walte,
To see again my Day o'erspread
“ With all the gloomy Palt.

“ My Home henceforth is in the skies,

“ Earth, Seas, and Sun adieu ! 66 All Heav'n unfolded to my eyes,

" I have no light for you."

So spake Aspasio, firm poffefs’d

Of Faith's supporting rod,
Then breath'd his foul into its rest,

The bosom of his God.

He wa

man, among the few, Sincere on Virtue's side ; And all his strength from Scripture drew,

To hourly use apply'd.

That rule he priz'd, by what he fear'd,

He hated, hop'd, and lov’d;
Nor ever frown'd, or fad appear’d,

But when his heart had roy'd.

For he was frail as thou or I,

And evil felt within ;
But when he felt it, heay'd a sigh,

And loath'd the thought of Sin.

Such liv'd Aspasio ; and, at last,

Call’d up from Earth to Heav'n, The gulph of Death triumphant pass'd,

By gales of blefing driven.

His joys be mine, each reader cries,

When my last hour arrives !
They shall be yours my Verse replies,
Such only be

your

lives.

1790.

Ne commonentem recta sperne.

BUCHANAN.

Defpise not my good counsel.

He who sits from day to day,

Where the prison'd lark is hung, Heedless of his loudest lay,

Hardly knows that he has sung.

Where the watchman in his round

Nightly lifts his voice on high, None, accustom'd to the sound,

Wakes the sooner for his cry.

So your Verse-man I, and Clerk,

Yearly in my song proclaim Death at hand-yourselves his mark

And the foe's unerring aim.

Duly at my time I come,

Publishing to all aloud
Soon the

grave
must be

your

home, And your only fuit, a shrowd.

But the monitory strain,

Oft repeated in your ears, Seems to found too much in vain,

Wins no notice, wakes no fears.

Can a truth, by all confess’d

Of such magnitude and weight, Grow, by being of compress'd,

Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleafure's call attention wins,

Hear it often as we may ; New as ever seem our sins,

Though committed ev'ry day.

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