Had we their wisdom, should we, often warned,
Still need repeated warnings, and at last,
A thousand awful admonitions scorned,
Die felf-accused of life run all to wafte?

Sad wafte! for which no after-thrift atones:
The grave admits no cure for guilt or fin;
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 fepulchres, inftru&tors true,

That, foon or late, death also is your lot,
And the next opening grave may yawn

for

you.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1789.

-Placidaque ibi demum morte quievit.

VIRG.

There calm at length he breathed his foul away.

"OH moft delightful hour by man

"Experienced here below,

"The hour that terminates his span,

"His folly, and his woe!

"Worlds fhould not bribe me back to tread

"Again life's dreary waste, "To fee again my day o'erspread "With all the gloomy past.

"" My home henceforth is in the skies, "Earth, feas, and fun adieu!

"All heaven unfolded to my eyes,

"I have no fight for you."

So fpoke Afpafio, firm poffeft
Of faith's fupporting rod,

Then breathed his foul into its reft,
The bofom of his God.

He was a man among the few

Sincere on virtue's fide;

And all his ftrength from fcripture drew,

To hourly ufe applied.

That rule he prized, by that he feared,
He hated, hoped, and loved;

Nor ever frowned, or fad appeared,

But when his heart had roved.

For he was frail as thou or I,

And evil felt within:

But when he felt it, heaved a figh,
And loathed the thought of fin.

Such lived Afpafio; and at laft -.
Called up from Earth to Heaven,
The gulph of death triumphant paffed,
By gales of bleffing driven...V

His joys be mine, each Reader cries,

When my

laft hour arrives:

They shall be yours, my Verse replies,
Such only be your lives.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1790.

Ne commonentem recta sperne.

Despise not my good counsel.

BUCHANAN.

He who fits from day to day,
Where the prisoned lark is hung,
Heedlefs of his loudeft lay,

Hardly knows that he has fung.

Where the watchman in his round
Nightly lifts his voice on high,
None, accustomed to the found,

Wakes the fooner for his cry.

So

your verfe-man I, and clerk,

Yearly in my fong proclaim

Death at hand-yourfelves his mark

And the foe's unerring aim.

Duly at my time I come,

Publishing to all aloud

Soon the grave must be

your home,

And your only fuit, a shroud.

But the monitory ftrain,

Oft repeated in your ears,
Seems to found too much in vain,
Wins no notice, wakes no fears.

Can a truth, by all confeffed

Of fuch magnitude and weight, Grow, by being oft expreffed, Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleasure's call attention wins,

Hear it often as we may;

New as ever seem our fins,

Though committed every day.