Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say
Who next is fated, and who next to fall,

The rest might then seem privileged to play;
But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL.

Observe the dappled foresters, how light
They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade-
One falls-the rest, wide scatter'd with affright,
Vanish at once into the darkest shade.

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd,
Still need repeated warnings, and at last,
A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,
Die self-accused of life run all to waste?

Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones.
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin;
Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones,
But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.

Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught
Of all these sepulchres, instructors true,
That, soon or late, death also is your lot,
And the next opening grave may yawn

for

you.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1789.

-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

Again life's dreary waste,

To see again my day o'erspread
With all the gloomy past.

66

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,
The 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.

Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!/

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles!
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine;
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,
And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd prayers,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.
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 beloved where never seen.

HYMN,

FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.

HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, In heaven 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 shower'd on those
Who placed us where it shines.