ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1788. Quod adest, memento Componere æquus. Catera fluminis Ritu feruntur. Improve the present hour, for all beside Hor. COULD I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage 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 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 Observe the dappled foresters, how light They bound and airy o'er the sunny gladeOne falls-the rest, wide-scatter'd with affright, Vanish at once into the darkest shade. Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, Sad waste! for which no after thrift atones: Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught 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. Placidâque ibi demum morte quievit.—Virg. There calm at length he breathed his soul away. 'O MOST 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 '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 Then breathed his soul into its rest, He was a man among the few And all his strength from Scripture drew, That rule he prized, by that he fear'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, Such lived Aspasio; and at last His joys be mine, each reader cries, They shall be yours, my verse replies, ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1790. Ne commonentem recta sperne.-Buchanan. He who sits from day to day Hardly knows that he has sung. Where the watchman in his round So your verse-man I and clerk, 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. |