Then suddenly regain the prize, O Queen of Albion, queen of isles! And strangers to the air of courts, Both in their toils and at their sports, Of grandeur that ensures respect; HYMN, FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY. HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, In heaven thy dwelling place, From infants made the public care, And taught to seek thy face. Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, Thanks that we hear, but O impart That we may listen with our heart, For if vain thoughts the minds engage Of older far than we, What hope, that, at our heedless age, Our minds should e'er be free? Much hope, if thou our spirits take Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, And be thy mercies shower'd on those STANZAS SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,* ANNO DOMINI 1787. Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres. HORACE. Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door 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. с Like crowded forest trees we stand, And some are mark'd to fall; 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 No present health can health insure 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! VOL. VII. T ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1788. Quod adest, memento Componere æquus. Cætera fluminis Ritu feruntur. HORACE. 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, How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet, Time then would seem more precious than the joys Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink |