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.

Oh then, ere the turf or tomb
Cover us from every eye,

Spirit of instruction! come,

Make us learn that we must dic.

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

FOR THE YEAR 1792.

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 blest 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

Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain,

And hopeless of repose.

Strange fondness of the human heart,

Enamour'd 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 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.

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 comprised,

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?

Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel;
Much menaced, nothing dread;
Have wounds which only God can heal,
Yet never ask His aid?

Who deem His house a useless place,
Faith, want of common sense;
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.

THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

MARIA! I have every good

For thee wish'd many a time, Both sad and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme.

To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed From temper-flaws unsightly.

*Throckmorton.

What favour then not yet possess'd

Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bless'd,

To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells some wish in every heart,
And doubtless one in thine.

That wish, on some fair future day
Which fate shall brightly gild,
('Tis blameless, be it what it may,)
I wish it all fulfill'd.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.,

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords.

COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers,
Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.
Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea

Thy gen'rous powers, but silence honour'd thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.