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“ Worlds should not bribe me back to tread
"Again life's dreary waste, “To see again my day o'erspread
“With all the gloomy past,
“ My home henceforth is in the skies,
Earth, seas, and sun adieu! or All heaven unfolded to my eyes,
“I bave no sight for you."
So spoke Aspasio, firm possest
Of faith's supporting rod,
The bosom of his God.
He was a man, among the few,
Sincere on virtue's side;
To hourly use applied.
That rule he prized, by that he feared,
He hated, hoped, and loved ;
But when his heart had roved.
For he was frail as thou or I,
And evil felt within ;
And loathed the thought of sin.
Such lived Aspasio; and at last
Called up from Earth to Heaven, The gulph of death triumphant passed,
By gales of blessing driven.
His joys be mine, each Reader cries,
When my last hour arrives: They shall be yours, my Verse replies,
Such only be your lives.
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,
FOR THE YEAR 1790.
Ne commonenten recta sperne.
Despise not my good counsel.
He who sits from day to day,
Where the prisoned lark is hung. Heedless of his loudest lay,
Hardly knows that he has sung.
Where the watchman in his round
Nightly lifts his voice on high, None, accustomed to the sound,
Wakes the sooner for his cry.
So your verse-man I, and elerk,
Yearly in my song proclaim Death at hand--yourselves his mark
And the foe's unerring aim.
Duly at my time I come,
Publishing to all aloudSoon the grave must be your home,
And your only suit, a shroud,
But the monitory strain,
Oft repeated in your ears, Seems to sound too much in vain,
Wins no notice, wakes no fears.
Can a truth, by all confessed
Of such magnitude and weight, Grow, by being oft expressed,
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 alonc, so often heard, No more move us than the bell
When some stranger is interred.
Ob then, ere the turf or tomb
Cover us from every, eye, Spirit of instruction, conie,
Make us learn that we must die.
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,
FOR THE YEAR 1792.
Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Happy the mortal, who has traced effects
THANKLESS for favours from on high,
Man thinks he fades too soon; Though 'tis his privilege to die,
Would he improve the bobu.
But he, not wise enough to scan
His best concerns aright,
To ages, if he might:
To ages in a world of pain,
where he goes
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 wc death a foc? Recoil from weary life's best hour,
And covet longer woe?
The cause is Conscience Conscience oft
Her tale of guilt renews:
And dread of death ensucs.
Then anxious to be longer spared
Man mourns his fleeting breath: All evils then seem light, compared
With the approach of death.