XIX. THE MAZE. FROM right to left, and to and fro, And turn, and turn, and turn again, Herself could serve you with a better. And make, with ease, your exit there! XX. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER. THE lover, in melodious verses, XXI. THE SNAIL. To grass, or leaf, or fruit or wall, The Snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, As if he grew there, house and all Together. Within that house secure he hides, Of weather. Give but his horns the slightest touch, Displeasure. Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Except himself has chattels none, Whole treasure. Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, The faster. Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combined,) If, finding it, he fails to find Its master. HYMN FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY. HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r In Heav'n, thy dwelling place, From infants made the public care, And taught to seek thy face. Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play Thy holy sabbaths more. Thanks that we hear!-But O impart To each desires sincere, That we may listen with our heart, For if vain thoughts the minds engage What hope, that at our heedless age, Much hope, if thou our spirits take Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, A sun that ne'er declines, And be thy mercies show'r'd on those, E 2 STANZAS Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the Parish of All-Saints, Northampton,* ANNO DOMINI 1787. Pallida Mors aquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres. Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor! Hor. WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run All these, life's rambling journey done, Was man (frail always,) made more frail Did famine or did plague prevail, No; these were vigorous as their sires, * Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton. Like crowded forest-trees we stand, The axe will smite at God's command, Green as the bay-tree, ever green, The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, Read, ye that run, the awful truth With which I charge my page; No present health can health ensure No medicine, though it oft can cure, 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! |