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-Placidâque ibi demum morte quievit.-Virg.
There calm at length he breathed his soul away.
'O MOST delightful hour by man
Experienced here below,

The hour that terminates his span,
His folly, and his woe!

'Worlds should not bribe me back to tread

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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 possess'd

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 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:

But, when he felt it, heaved a sigh,

And loathed the thought of sin.

Such lived Aspasio; and at last
Call'd up from earth to heaven,
That gulf of death triumphant pass'd,
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.



Ne commonentem recta sperne.-Buchanan.
Despise not my good counsel.

He who sits from day to day,
Where the prison'd lark is hung,
Heedless of his loudest lay,

Hardly knows what he has sung.
Where the watchman in his round
Nightly lifts his voice on high,
None, accustom'd 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 confess'd
Of such magnitude and weight,
Grow, by being oft impress'd,
Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleasures 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 interr'd.

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

Make us learn, that we must die.

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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!

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 bless'd 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,

Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart,
Enamour'd 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 incurr'd 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.



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


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?

Who deem his house a useless place,
Faith, want of common sense;
And ardour in the Christian race,
A hypocrite's pretence?

Who trample order; and the day,
Which God asserts his own,
Dishonour with unhallow'd play,
And worship chance alone?

If scorn of God's commands, impress'd
On word and deed, imply
The better part of man unbless'd
With life that cannot die;

Such want it, and that want, uncured

Till man resigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, assured

Of everlasting death.

Sad period to a pleasant course!
Yet so will God repay

Sabbaths profaned without remorse,

And mercy cast away.

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