Alas for the Poet! who dares undertake

To urge reformation of national ill-
His head and his heart are both likely to ache
With the double employment of mallet and mill.

If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Smooth, ductile, and even, his fancy must flow,
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,

And catch in its progress a sensible glow.

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine

As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows;
For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.

LINES

COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ., IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH.

FAREWELL! endued with all that could engage
All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age!
In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old;

In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found!)
Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd;
Through every period of this changeful state
Unchanged thyself-wise, good, affectionate!

Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem
O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme,
Although thy worth be more than half supprest,
Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.

199

STANZAS

SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE PARISH OF
ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON, ANNO DOMINI 1787.

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 caine;
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!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1788.

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 scattered 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.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1789.

'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.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1790.

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.