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If they, who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,
Tis but the natural effect,
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than Queen,
Who is belovM where never seen.

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Hear, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r,

In Heav'n thy dwelling place,
From infants made the public care,

And taught to seek thy face.

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day.

And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play

Thy holy sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear,—but O impart

To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,

And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage

Of older far than we, What hope, that, at our heedless age,

Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take
Under thy gracious sway,

Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, ,

A sun that ne'er declines, And be thy mercies show'r'd on those,

Who plac'd us where it shines.

STANZAS

Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the

Parish of

ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON*,

Anno Domini 1787.

Pallida Mars aquo pulsat pede pauperum talernas,
Regumque turret, Horace.

Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door
Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.

While thirteen moons saw smoothly run The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All these, life's rambling journey done, Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail

Than in foregoing years?
Did famine or did plague prevail,

That so much death appears 1

• Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton.

No; these were vig'rous as their sires'
Nor plague nor famine came;

This annual tribute Death requires,
And nerer waves his claim.

Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall;The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,

With it's new foliage on, The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,

I pass'd—and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the awful truth
With which I charge my page;A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.

No present health can health insure For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it oft can cure,

Can always baulk the tomb. And O! that humble as my lot,

And scorn'd as is my strain, These truths, though known, too much forgot,

I may not teach in vain.

So prays your clerk with all his heart,

And ere he quits the pen,
Begs you for once to take his part,

And answer all—Amen!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1788.

Quod adest, memento
Componere cequus. Cceterafluminis
Rituferunlur. Horace.

Improve the present hour, for all beside
Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide,

Could I, from Heav'n inspir'd, 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;

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