Can a truth, by all confess'd
Of such magnitude and weight,
Grow, by being oft impress'd,
Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleasure's call attention wins,
Hear it often as we may;
New as ever seem our sins,
Though committed every day.

Death and Judgment, Heaven and Hell-
These alone, so often heard,

No more move us than the bell,
When some stranger is interr'd.

O then, ere the turf or tomb
Cover us from every eye,
Spirit of instruction come,

Make us learn that we must die.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

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, who has traced effects
To their first cause, 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 bless'd 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

Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose,

Strange fondness of the human heart,
Enamour'd 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, anxious 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 incurr'd a long arrear,

And must despair to pay.

Pay!-follow Christ, and all is paid;
His death your peace ensures;
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 a 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 unhallow'd play,
And worship chance alone?

If scorn of God's commands, impress'd
On word and deed, imply
The better part of man unbless'd
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. HAMILTON,

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; a heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth, oft-times 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 ear heard huntsman's halloo,

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 he regaled;
On pippins' russet peel,

And, when his juicy salads fail'd,

Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,

Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol 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 thus 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 a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM.

HIC etiam jacet,
Qui totum novennium vixit,

Puss.
Siste paulisper,

Qui præteriturus es,

Et tecum sic reputa:

Hunc neque canis venaticus,
Nec plumbum missile,
Nec laques,

Nec in bres nimii,

Confecêre:

Tatem mortuus est

Et moriar ego.

S