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In many a page historic stray'd,
Siege after siege, fight after fight,
Contemplating with small delight
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view);
Till setting on the current year
I found the far-sought treasure near.
A theme for poetry divine,
A theme to ennoble even mine,
In memorable eighty-nine.

The spring of eighty-nine shall be
An era cherish'a long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty-eight,
That threaten'a England's trembling stata
With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heaven, that cried-Restoral
Chased, never to assemble more:
And far the richest crown on earth,
If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign,
Sat fast on George's brows again.

Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our Queen's long-agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone,
Who losing, or supposing lost,
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!

0, Queen of Albion, queen of isles !
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine,
Transports not chargeable with art
Illumo the land's remotest part,
And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sportu,

The happiness of answer'd prayers,
That gilds thy features, shew in their
If they, who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend
Tis but the natural effect
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than queen
Who is beloved where never seen.




HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,

In heaven thy dwelling-place,
From infants made the public care,

And taught to seek thy face.
Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,

And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play

Thy holy sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear,-but O impart

To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with onr heart,

And learn as well as hear!
For if vain thoughts the minds engage

Of older far than we,
What hope, that, at our heedless age,

Our minds should e'er be free?
Much hope, if thou our spirits take

Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,

And babes as wise as they.
Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,

A sun that ne'er declines,
And be thy mercies shower'd on those,

Who placed us where it shines.




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Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauper im tabernas,

Regumque turres---Hor.
Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door
of royal balls, and hovels of the poor.

WBILE 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 death appears?

No: these were vigorous as their sires,

Nor plague not famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,

And never waives 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.

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Green as the bay-tree, ever green,

With its new foliage on,
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,

I pass'd-and they were gone.
Read, ye that run, the awful truth,

With which I charge my page ;
A worm is in the bud of youth,

And at the root of age.
Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton

No present health can health ensure

For yet an hour to come;
No med'cine, though it oft can cure,

Can always balk the tomb.
And Ol that humble as my lot,

And scorn'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 answer all — Amen!



Quod adest, memento
Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis
Ritu feruntur.-Hor.
Improve the present hour, or all beside

Is å mere feather on a torrent's uide.
Could I, from heaven inspired, 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 rcplete
With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye!
Time then would seem more precious than the joy
In which he sports away the treasure now;
And prayer more seasonable than the noise
Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.
Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink
Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore,
Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think,
Told that his setting sur must rise no more.

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Ah, self-deceived! Could I prophetic s
Who next is fated, and who next to fa
The rest might then seem privileged te
But naming none, the voice now speal
Observe the dappled foresters, how lig-
They bound and airy o'er the sunny gl
One falls the rest, wide-scatter'd wit)

Vanish at once into the darkest shade. • Had we their wisdom, should we, ofte

Still need repeated warnings, and at la A thousand awful admonitions scorn’d, Die self-accused of life run all to waste Sad wastel for which no after-thrift a The grave admits no cure for guilt or = Dew-drops may deck the turf, that hid But tears of godly grief ne're flow with Learn then, ye living! by the mouths Of all these sepulchres, instructors tru. That, soon or late, death also is your lo And the next opening grave may yawa



-Placidoque ibi demum morte qulevit.--
There calm at length he breathed his so

• O most delightful hour by man

Experienced here below,
The hour that terminates his spa

His folly, and his woe!
• Worlds should not bribe me bac

Again life's dreary waste,
To see again my day o'erspread

With all the gloomy past.

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