Improve the present hour, for all beside COULD I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage To whom the rising year shall prove his last, As I can number in my punctual page, 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. VOL. II. A A Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say Observe the dappled foresters, how light They bound and airy o'er the sunny gladeOne falls-the rest, wide-scatter'd with affright, Vanish at once into the darkest shade. Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'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 Of all these sepulchres, instructors true, That, soon 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 calin at length he breathed his soul away. 'O MOST delightful hour by man Experienced here below, The hour that terminates his His folly, and his woe! span, 'Worlds should not bribe me back to tread Again life's dreary waste, '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 possess'd 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 fear'd, He hated, hoped, and loved; Nor ever frown'd or sad appear'd, But when his heart had roved. For he was frail as thou or I, And evil felt within; And, when he felt it, heaved a sigh, Such lived Aspasio; and at last His joys be mine, each reader cries, ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1790. Ne commonentem recta sperne. BUCHANAN. Despise not my good counsel. He who sits from day to day Hardly knows that he has sung. Where the watchman in his round So your verse-man I and clerk, Death at hand-yourselves his mark--- Duly at my time I come, 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 confess'd 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- O, then, ere the turf or tomb Spirit of instruction, come, Make us learn that we must die. |