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,`
HORACE.
Regumque turres.

Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door
Of royal halls and hovels of the poor.

WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?
Did famine or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears ?

No; these were vigorous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waives his claim.

Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall;

The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on,

The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,
I pass'd, and they were gone.
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 insure
For yet an hour to come;

No medicine, though it oft can cure,
Can always balk the tomb.

And oh! that humble as my lot,

And scorn'd as is my strain,

These truths, though known, too much forgot, I may not teach in vain.

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!

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, heavenward turn his eye!
Time then would seem more precious than the joys
In which he sports away the treasure now;
And prayer more seasonable than the noise
Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.

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 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 those sepulchres, instructors true,
That, soon or late, death also is your lot,
And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

"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.

"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.

He who sits from day to day
Where the prison'd lark is hung,
Heedless of his loudest lay,

Hardly knows that he has sung.
Where the watchman in his round
Nightly lifts his voice on high,
None, accustom'd to the sound,
Wakes the sooner for his cry.
So your verse-man I, and Clerk,
Yearly in my song proclaim
Death at hand-yourselves his mark-
And the foe's unerring aim.

Duly at my time I come,

Publishing to all aloud,-
Soon the grave must be your home,
And your only suit a shroud.
But the monitory strain,

Oft repeated in your ears,
Seems to sound too much in vain,
Wins no notice, wakes no fears.

Can a truth, by all confess'd

Of such magnitude and weight, Grow, by being oft impress'd,

Trivial as a parrot's prate?

Pleasure's call attention wins,

Hear it often as we may ;

New as ever seem our sins,

Though committed every day.

Death and judgment, heaven and hell-
These alone, so often heard,

No more move us than the bell
When some stranger is interr'd.

O then, ere the turf or tomb
Cover us from every eye,
Spirit of instruction! come,

Make us learn that we must die.

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 incurr'd a long arrear,
And must despair to pay.

Pay-follow Christ, and all is paid;
His death your peace ensures;
Think on the grave where he was laid,
And calm descend to yours.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,

FOR THE YEAR 1793.

De sacris autem hæc sit una sententia, ut conserventur. 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.

And ardour in the Christian race,

A hypocrite's pretence?

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, uncured
Till man resigns his breath,
Speaks him a criminal, assured
Of everlasting death.

Sad period to a pleasant course!
Yet so will God repay

Sabbaths profaned without remorse,
And mercy cast away.

But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:
He roar'd approaching; but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs changed,-arrived within,
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw.
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand,
But bolder grown, at length inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious
blood,

And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day,
Regales his inmate with the parted prey;
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.
But thus to live-still lost-sequester'd still-
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill.
Home! native home! O might he but repair!
He must, he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doom'd to perish on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands;
When lo! the self-same lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage.
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And soften'd by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.

Mute with astonishment the assembly gaze:
But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?
All this is natural: nature bade him rend
An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.

A MANUAL,

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.

THERE is a book, which we may call
(Its excellence is such)
Alone a library, though small;

The ladies thumb it much.

Words none, things numerous it contains;
And, things with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue

A golden edging boast;
And open'd it displays to view
Twelve pages at the most.

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind,
Adorns its outer part;

But all within 'tis richly lined,
A magazine of art.

The whitest hands that secret hoard
Oft visit; and the fair

Preserve it in their bosoms stored,
As with a miser's care.
Thence implements of every size,

And form'd for various use,
(They need but to consult their eyes)
They readily produce.

The largest and the longest kind
Possess the foremost page,

A sort most needed by the blind,
Or nearly such from age.

The full-charged leaf, which next ensues,
Presents in bright array

The smaller sort, which matrons use,
Not quite so blind as they.

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply
What their occasions ask,
Who with a more discerning eye
Perform a nicer task.

But still with regular decrease
From size to size they fall,
In every leaf grow less and less;
The last are least of all.

O! what a fund of genius, pent
In narrow space, is here!
This volume's method and intent
How luminous and clear!

It leaves no reader at a loss
Or posed, whoever reads:
No commentator's tedious gloss,
Nor even index needs.

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er!

No book is treasured there,
Nor yet in Granta's numerous store,
That may with this compare.
No!-rival none in either host

Of this was ever seen,

Or, that contents could justly boast,
So brilliant and so keen.

AN ENIGMA.

A NEEDLE small, as small can be,
In bulk and use, surpasses me,
Nor is my purchase dear;
For little, and almost for nought,
As many of my kind are bought
As days are in the year.

Yet though but little use we boast,
And are procured at little cost,

The labour is not light;
Nor few artificers it asks,
All skilful in their several tasks,
To fashion us aright.

One fuses metal o'er the fire,
A second draws it into wire,

The shears another plies,
Who clips in lengths the brazen thread
For him, who, chafing every shred,
Gives all an equal size.

A fifth prepares, exact and round,
The knob, with which it must be crown'd;
His follower makes it fast:
And with his mallet and his file

To shape the point, employs awhile
The seventh and the last.
Now therefore, Edipus! declare
What creature, wonderful, and rare,
A process, that obtains
Its purpose with so much ado,
At last produces!-tell me true,
And take me for your pains!

SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED

IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

NONE ever shared the social feast, Or as an inmate or a guest, Beneath the celebrated dome Where once Sir Isaac had his home, Who saw not (and with some delight Perhaps he view'd the novel sight) How numerous at the tables there, The sparrows beg their daily fare. For there, in every nook and cell, Where such a family may dwell, Sure as the vernal season comes Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs, Which kindly given, may serve with food Convenient their unfeather'd brood; And oft as with its summons clear The warning bell salutes their ear, Sagacious listeners to the sound, They flock from all the fields around, To reach the hospitable hall, None more attentive to the call. Arrived, the pensionary band, Hopping and chirping, close at hand, Solicit what they soon receive, The sprinkled, plenteous donative. Thus is a multitude, though large, Supported at a trivial charge; A single doit would overpay The expenditure of every day, And who can grudge so small a grace To suppliants, natives of the place?

FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS.

As in her ancient mistress' lap

The youthful tabby lay,
They gave each other many a tap,
Alike disposed to play.

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,
And with protruded claws

Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm, Mere wantonness the cause.

At once, resentful of the deed,

She shakes her to the ground
With many a threat that she shall bleed
With still a deeper wound.

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest;
It was a venial stroke:

For she that will with kittens jest,
Should bear a kitten's joke.

INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.

SWEET bird, whom the winter constrains-
And seldom another it can-
To seek a retreat while he reigns,

In the well-shelter'd dwellings of man Who never can seem to intrude,

Though in all places equally free, Come! oft as the season is rude, Thou art sure to be welcome to me.

At sight of the first feeble ray,

That pierces the clouds of the east, To inveigle thee every day

My windows shall show thee a feast; For, taught by experience I know

Thee mindful of benefit long, And that, thankful for all I bestow, Thou wilt pay me with many a song. Then soon as the swell of the buds

Bespeaks the renewal of spring, Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,

Or where it shall please thee to sing: And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost, Come again to my window or door, Doubt not an affectionate host,

Only pay, as thou pay'dst me before.

Thus music must needs be confest

To flow from a fountain above; Else how should it work in the breast Unchangeable friendship and love? And who on the globe can be found, Save your generation and ours, That can be delighted by sound,

Or boasts any musical powers?

STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE.

THE shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet Philomel
Essay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain,

And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,
The numbers, echoed note for note again.

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before
A rival of his skill, indignant heard,
And soon (for various was his tuneful store)
In loftier tones defied the simple bird.

She dared the task, and rising, as he rose,
With all the force, that passion gives, inspired,
Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close,
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.

Thus strength, not skill, prevail'd. O fatal strife,
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun!
And O sad victory, which cost thy life,
And he may wish that he had never won!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728.

ANCIENT dame how wide and vast, To a race like ours appears, Rounded to an orb at last,

All thy multitude of years!

We, the herd of human kind,

Frailer and of feebler powers; We, to narrow bounds confined, Soon exhaust the sum of ours.

Death's delicious banquet, we

Perish even from the womb, Swifter than a shadow flee, Nourish'd, but to feed the tomb.

Seeds of merciless disease

Lurk in all that we enjoy ; Some, that waste us by degrees, Some, that suddenly destroy.

And if life o'erleap the bourn,

Common to the sons of men, What remains, but that we mourn, Dream, and dote, and drivel then?

Fast as moons can wax and wane, Sorrow comes; and while we groan, Pant with anguish and complain

Half our years are fled and gone.

If a few, (to few 'tis given)

Lingering on this earthly stage, Creep and halt with steps uneven, To the period of an age; Wherefore live they, but to see Cunning, arrogance, and force, Sights lamented much by thee, Holding their accustom'd course?

Oft was seen, in ages past,

All that we with wonder view;
Often shall be to the last;
Earth produces nothing new.

Thee we gratulate; content,

Should propitious Heaven design Life for us, as calmly spent,

Though but half the length of thine.