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, wbo has traced effects
To their first causé, 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

in a world of pain,
To ages, where he goes
Galled by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose.
Strange fondness of the human heart,

Enamoured of its harm!
Strange world, that costs it so much smart,

And still has power to charm. Whence has the world her magic power?..

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

And covet longer woe?

The cause is Conscience-Conscience oft

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

And dread of death ensues.
Then anxions to be longer spared

Man mourns his fleeting breath :
All evils then seem light, compared

With the approach of death.
*Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear,

That prompts the wish to stay:
He has incurred a long arrear,

And must despair to pay.
Pay!—follow Christ, and all is paid;

His death your peace insures ;
Think on the grave where he was laid,

And calm descend to yours.

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.
But life, within a narrow ring

Of giddy joys comprised,
Is falsely named, and no such thing,

But rather death disguised.
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 diseased, yet nothing feel;

Much menaced, nothing dread; Have wounds, which only God can heal,

Yet never ask his aid? Who deem his house an useless place,

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

A hypocrite's pretence?
Who trample order; and the day,

Which God asserts his own,
Dishonour with unhallowed play,

And worship chance alone? If scorn of God's commands, impressed

On word and deed, imply The better part of man,

unblessed With life that cannot die; Such want it, and that want uncured

Till man resigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, assured

Of everlasting death.

Sad period to a pleasant course!

Yet so will God repay
Sabbaths profaned without remorse,

And mercy cast away.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTOX.

Pause here, and think: a monitory rhyme
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.

Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein ;
Seems it to say—“Health here has long to reign?"
Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? an heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never sees;
And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud
Exclaims, “ Prepare thee for an early shroud."

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,

Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,

Nor e'er heard huntsman's hallo'.
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,

Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,

And when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,

And milk, and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn be regaled,

On pippins' russet peel,
And when his juicy salads failed,

Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,

Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gamble like a fawn,

And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,

For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,

Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons

He thạs saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,

And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,

For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache;

And force me to smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade

He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snag concealment laid,

Till gentler Puss shall come.