TEMPTATION. THE billows swell, the winds are high, Out of the depths to thee I call, My fears are great, my strength is small O Lord, the pilot's part perform, And guide and guard me through the storm; Amidst the roaring of the sea, My soul still hangs her hope on thee; Dangers of every shape and name Though tempest-tossed and half a wreck, SUBMISSION. O LORD, my best desire fulfil, And help me to resign Life, health, and comfort, to thy will, Why should I shrink at thy command, Or tremble at the gracious hand No, let me rather freely yield Thy favour all my journey through Wisdom and mercy guide my way, A poor blind creature of a day, And crushed before the moth! But ah! my inward spirit cries, Else the next cloud that veils my skies, Drives all these thoughts away. STANZAS Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the Parish of All-Saints, Northampton.* Anno Domini, 1787. Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres. HORACE. Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor. WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run All these, life's rambling journey done, Was man (frail always) made more frail No; these were vigorous as their sires, Like crowded forest-trees we stand, * Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton. Green as the bay tree, ever green, The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, 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 ensure And O! that, humble as my lot, These truths, though known, too much forgot, 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 æquus. Cætera fluminis Ritu feruntur. HORACE. Improve the present hour, for all beside www COULD I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage 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, heaven-ward 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. Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL. |