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 clerk,

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 aloud—
Soon 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 alone, so often heard, No more move us than the bell

When some stranger is interred. Oh then, ere the turf or tomb Cover us from every eye, Spirit of instruction! come Make us learn that we must die.

THANKLESS for favours from on high, Man thinks he fades too soon; Though 'tis his privilege to die, Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scan
His best concerns aright,
Would gladly stretch life's little span
To ages, if he might.

To ages in a world of pain,
To ages, where he goes
Galled by affliction's heavy chain,
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 we Death a foe?
Recoil from weary life's best hour,
And covet longer woe?

The cause is Conscience ;--Conscience oft

Her tale of guilt renews :
Her voice is terrible, though soft,
And dread of Death ensues.

Then, anxious to be longer spared, Man mourns his fleeting breath:

And evils then seem light, compared With the approach of Death.

'Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear

That prompts the wish to stay: He has incurred a long arrear, And must despair to pay.

Pay!-follow Christ, and all is paid : His death your peace ensures; Think on the grave where He was laid, And calm descend to yours.

And cry,

THE NIGHT OF THE

George took his seat again,

WHEN, long sequestered from his throne,

By right of worth, not blood alone, Entitled here to reign;

Then Loyalty, with all her lamps

New trimmed, a gallant show, Chasing the darkness and the damps, Set London in a glow.

'Twas hard to tell of streets or squares Which formed the chief display; These most resembling clustered stars, Those the long milky way.

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,

And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.

So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves, on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.

Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession joined,
And all the banners been unfurled
That heralds e'er designed,

For no such sight had England's Queen
Forsaken her retreat,

Where George recovered made a scene, Sweet always, doubly sweet.

It was a scene in every part

Like those in fable feigned,
And seemed by some magician's art
Created and sustained.

But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.

That cordial thought her spirits cheered,
And through the cumbrous throng,
Not else unworthy to be feared,
Conveyed her calm along.

So, ancient poets say, serene
The sea-maid rides the waves,
And fearless of the billowy scene
Her peaceful bosom laves.
With more than astronomic eyes
She viewed the sparkling show;
One Georgian star adorns the skies,
She myriads found below.

Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once seen, suffice; Heaven grant us no such future sight, Such previous woe the price!

MUSE, hide his name of whom I sing, Lest his surviving house thou bring For his sake into scorn;

Nor speak the school from which he drew

The much or little that he knew,

Nor place where he was born.

That such a man once was, may seem Worthy of record (if the theme

Perchance may credit win), For proof to man what man may prove, If grace depart, and demons move

The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below;
Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such; and he had worth,
If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose

Possessed of every kind.

Methinks I see him powdered red, With bushy locks his well-dressed head Winged broad on either side,

The mossy rosebud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As luxury could provide.

Can such be cruel?

Such can be Cruel as hell, and so was he;

A tyrant entertained

With barbarous sports, whose fell delight Was to encourage mortal fight

'Twixt birds to battle trained.

One feathered champion he possessed, His darling far beyond the rest,

Which never knew disgrace, Nor e'er had fought but he made flow The life-blood of his fiercest foe,

The Cæsar of his race.

It chanced at last, when on a day
He pushed him to the desperate fray,
His courage drooped, he fled.
The master stormed, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,

He doomed his favourite dead.

He seized him fast, and from the pit Flew to the kitchen, snatched the spit, And "Bring me cord!" he cried: The cord was brought, and, at his word, To that dire implement the bird

Alive and struggling tied.