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Then suddenly regain the prize,
O Queen of Albion, queen of isles !
If they who on thy state attend,
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,
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,
And learn as well as hear.
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
Under thy gracious sway,
And babes as wise as they.
Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,
A sun that ne'er declines, And be thy mercies shower'd on those
Who placed us where it shines.
SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL or MORTALITY OF THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON, *
ANNO DOMINI 1787.
Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
While thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,
Have found their home, the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years ?
That so much death appears ?
No; these were vigorous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine came; This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waves his claim.
* Composed for Jobn Cox, parish clerk of Northampton. Like crowded forest trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall;
And soon shall smite us all.
Green as the bay tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on,
I pass'd—and they were gone.
run, the awful truth
No present health can health insure
For yet an hour to come;
Can always balk the tomb.
And OT 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,
And answer all— Amen!
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION,
FOR THE YEAR 1788.
Quod adest, memento
Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage
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