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!
All Heaven unfolded to my eyes,
I have no sight for you."

So spake Aspasio, firm possessed
Of faith's supporting rod,
Then breathed his soul into its rest,
The bosom of his God.

He was a man among the few
Sincere on virtue's side;

And all his strength from Scripture drew,
To hourly use applied.

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

Nor ever frowned, or sad 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 sigh,
And loathed the thought of sin.

Such lived Aspasio: and at last
Called up from Earth to Heaven,
The gulf 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 commonentem recta sperne.
Despise not my good counsel.

BUCHANAN.

He who sits from day to day,
Where the prisoned lark is hung,
Heedless of his loudlest 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 impressed,
Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleasure's call attention wins,
Hear it often as we may;
New as ever seein 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.

O then, ere the turf or tomb
Cover us from every eye,
Spirit of instruction come,

Make us learn that we must die.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1792.

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum

Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari! VIRG.

Happy the mortal, who has traced effects
To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet,
And Death and roaring Hell's voracious fires!

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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:
All 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.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1793.

De sacris autem hæc sit una sententia, ut conserventur.

CIC. DE LEG.

But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things sacred be inviolate.

He lives, who lives to God alone,
And all are dead beside;

For other source than God is none
Whence life can be supplied.

To live to God is to requite
His love as best we may;
To make his precepts our delight,
His promises our stay.

But life, within a narrow ring
Of giddy joys comprised,
Is falsely named, and no such thing,
But rather death disguised.

Can life in them deserve the name,
Who only live to prove

For what poor toys they can disclaim
An endless life above?

Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel;
Much menaced, nothing dread;

Have wounds, which only God can heal,
Yet never ask his aid?