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So your verse-man I, and clerk, Yearly in my song proclaim
And the foe's unerring aim.
Duly at my time I come, Publishing to all aloud—
But the monitory strain, Oft repeated in your ears,
Can a truth by all confess'd
Grow, by being oft impress'd,
Pleasure's call attention wins, Hear it often as we may;New as ever seem our sins, Though committed ev'ry day.
Death and Judgment, Heav'n and Hell-
O then, ere the turf or tomb Cover us from ev'ry eye,
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1792.
FetLc, quipotuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Happy the mortal, who has trac'd effects
To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet, And Death, and roaring Hell's voracious fires!
Thankless for favours from on high,
Though 'tis his privilege to die,
But he, not wise enough to scan
His blest concerns aright,
To ages, if he might.
To ages in a world of pain,
To ages, where he goes
And hopeless of repose.
Strange fondness of the human heart, Enamour'd of it's harm! Strange world, that costs it so much smart, And still has pow'r to charm.
Whence has the world her magic pow'r?
Why deem we death a foe? Recoil from weary life's best hour,
And covet longer wo?
The cause is Conscience—Conscience oft
Her tale of guilt renews:
Then anxious to be longer spar'd