HYMN, FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY. HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer In Heaven, thy dwellingplace, 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 our heart, For if vain thoughts the minds engage What hope, that at our heedless age, Much hope, if thou our spirits take Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, And be thy mercies shower'd on those STANZAS Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality OF THE PARISH OF ALL SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON*. ANNO DOMINI 1787. Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door HOR. WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run All these, life's rambling journey done, Was man (frail always) made more frail Did famine or did plague prevail, That so much death appears? No; these were vigorous as their sires, And never waves his claim. * Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton. Like crowded forest trees we stand, The axe will smite at God's command, Green as the bay tree, ever green, The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, Read, ye that run, the awful truth No present health can health ensure No medicine, though it oft can cure, And O! that, humble as my lot, These truths, though known, too much forgot, 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! ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. FOR THE YEAR 1788. Quod adest, memento Componere æquus. Cætera fuminis Ritu feruntur. HOR. Improve the present hour, for all beside COULD I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage 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 replete With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye! Time then would seem more precious than the joys 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 sun must rise no more. Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd, Die self-accused of life run all to waste? Sad waste! for which no after thrift atones : Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught That, soon or late, death also is your lot, And the next opening grave may yawn for you. |