qui fiotuit rerum cognoscere causas, Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum Subjecit fiedibus, strefiitumque Acheronda ovari!


Happy the mortal, who has traced effects
To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet,
And Death, and roaring Hell's voracious fires!

Thankless for favours from on high,

Man thinks he fades too soon;
Though 'tis his privilege to die,

Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scan

His best concerns aright,
Would gladly stretch life's little span

To ages, if he might.

To ages in a world of pain,

To ages, where he goes
Galled by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart,

Enamoured of its harm!
Strange world, that costs it so much smart,

And still has power to charm. Whence has the world her magic power?

Why deem we death a foe? Recoil from weary life's best hour,

And covet longer woe?

The cause is Conscience—Conscience oft

Her tale of guilt renews:
Her voice is terrible though soft,

And dread of death ensues.

.Then anxious to be longer spared
Man mourns his fleeting breath:

All evils then seem light, compared
With the approach of Death.

'Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear,
That prompts the wish to stay:

He has incurred a long arrear,
And must despair to pay.

Pay !—follow Christ, and all is paid;

His death your peace insures;
Think on the grave where he was laid,

And calm descend to yours.



Df sacris autem h&c sit una sententia, ut conser•ventur. Cic. De Leg.

But let as 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 comprized,
Is falsely named, and no such thing,

But rather death disguised.

Can life in them deserve the name,

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

An endless life above?

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,

And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance every 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.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,

On pippin's russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads failedj

Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,

Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn,

And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,

For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,

Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal away,

Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour sake,

For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,

And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade

He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,

Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,

From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,

Must soon partake his grave.


On his presenting me with an antique
Bust of Homer.

Kinsman beloved, and as a son by me,
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,

I reverence feel for him, and love for thee.

Joy too, and grief; much joy, that there should be Wise men, and leara'd, who grudge not to reward,

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