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ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1793.

De sacris aitlem hasc sit una sententia, ut conserventw.

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 compris'd,
Is falsely nam'd, and no such thing, But rather death disguis'd.

Can life in them deserve the name,

Who only live to prove
For what poor toys they can disclaim

An endless life above 1

Who, much diseas'd, yet nothing feel;

Much menac'd, nothing dread; Have wounds, which only God can heal,

Yet never ask his aid?

Who deem his house an useless place, Faith, want of common sense;
And ardour in the Christian race, A hypocrite's pretence 1

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, uncur'd
Till man resigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, assur'd
Of everlasting death.

Sad period to a pleasant course!

Yet so will God repay
Sabbaths profan'd without remorse,

And mercy cast away.

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INSCRIPTION

FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON.

Pause here, and think; a monitory rhime
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein;
Seems it to say—" Health here has long to reign?"
Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never sees;
And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud
Exclaims, " Prepare thee for an early shroud."

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo'.

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nurs'd with tender care, And to domestic bounds confin'd,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance ev'ry night,
He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.

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