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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 show'r'd on those,

Wbo plac'd us where it shines.

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Subjorned to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the Parish of All-Saints, Northampton *,

Anno Domini 1787.

Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regumque turres.

Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door
Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.

WHILE 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 fansine or did plague prevail,

That so much death appears ?

No; these were vig'rous as their sires,

Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,

And never waves his claim,

* Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton

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.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
With it's new fóliage on,

the thoughtless, have I seen, I pass'd—and they were gone.

The gay,

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.

No present health can health insure i diuo

For yet an hour to come art od mod w oT No medicine, though it oft can cure, as I all

Can always baulk the tomb. wob arsti brA

And O! that humble as my lot, ow85 #w

And scorn'd as is my strain, 1 sov s These truths, though known, too much forgot,

I may not teach in vain. u eius da

So prays your clerk with all his heart,1') 2:1

And ere he quits the pen, a vår 47 90 91w Begs you fot once to také his part, Yato tur And answer all-Amen!





Quod adest, memento
Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis
Ritu feruntur.

Improve the present hour, for all beside
Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide.

Could I, from Heav'n inspir'd, as sure présage
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 bis sentence, bow réplete
With anxious meaning, Heav'nwärd turn his eye!

Tiine then wonld seem more precious than the joys,
In which he sports away the treasure now;
And pray'r 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,
Forc'd to a pause, would feel it good to think,
Told that his setting sun must rise no more.

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

Observe the dappled foresters, how light
They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade
One falls--the rest, wide-scatter'd with affright,
Vanish at once into the darkest shade.

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 run all to waste?

Sad waste! 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 sepulchres, instructors true,
"That, soon or late, death also is your lot,

the next op'ning grave may yawn for you

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