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 ensure
For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it oft can cure,
Can always balk the tomb.

And O! 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!



Quod adest, memento

Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis
Ritu feruntur.

Improve the present hour, for all beside
Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide.


COULD I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage
To whom the rising year shall prove his last,
As I can number in my punctual page,

And item down the victims of the past;

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;
Dew-drops 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.



-Placidâque ibi demum morte quievit. Virg. There calm at length he breathed his soul away.

'O MOS delightful hour by man
'Experienced here below,

The hour that terminates his span,
His folly, and his wo!

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.

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