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And Spring's new months his train adorn; The other seasons were unborn.

Known by the Gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause. O'er a low trunk his arm he laid (Where since his hours a dial nade); Then leaning heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of fate :

Since Body from the parent Earth, And Soul from Jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they first began : But since their union makes the Man, Till Jove and Earth shall part these two, To Care, who join'd them, Man is due.

He said, and sprung with swist career To trace a circle for the

year; Where ever since the seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, said Jove, and for consent, Thund'ring he shook the firmament. Our umpire Time shall have his way; With Care I let the creature stay: Let bus'ness vex him, av'rice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion speak, And want afflict, and sickness break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy distract, and sorrow kill. Till arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long-destructive blow;

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And wasted Man whose quick decay
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find, by this decree,
The soul fies sooner back to me.


Behold yon new-born infant griev'd

With hunger, thirst, and pain ; That asks to have the wants reliev'd

It knows not to explain.

Aloud the speechless suppliant cries,

And utters, as it can,
The woes that in its bosom rise,

And speak its nature Man.

That infant, whose advancing hour

Life's various sorrows try, (Sad proof of sin's transmissive power!)

That infant, Lord! am I.

A childhood yet my thoughts confesss

Tho' long in years mature ; Unknowing whence I feel distress,

And where, or what its cure.

Author of good ! to thee I turn;

Thy ever-wakeful eye
Alone can all my wants discern,

Thy hand alone supply.

O let thy fear within me dwell,

Thy love my footsteps guide; That love shall vainer loves expel,

That fear all fears beside.

And O! by Error's force subdu'd,

Since oft my stubborn will, Preposterous, shuns the latent good,

And grasps the specious ill;

Not to my wish but to my want,

Do thou thy gifts apply: Unask'd, what good thou knowest, grant;

What ill, tho' ask'd, deny,


For ibe Year 1788.

Quod adest, memento
Componere aquus.

Cætera fluminis
Ritu feruntur


Improve the present hour, for all beside
Is a mere feather on a torrents 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,
And itern down the victims of the past;

How each would trembling wait the mournful

sheet, On which the press might stamp biin next to die; And, reading here his sentence, how replete With anxious meaning, heaven-ward turn his eye!

Time then would seem more precious than the joys,
In which he sporís away the treasure now;
And prayer more seasonable than the noise
Of drunkards or the music-drawn bow.

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
Who next is fated, and who next to fall,
The rest might then seem privileged to play;
But, naming none, the voice now speaks to ALL.

Observe the dappled foresters, how light
They bound, and airy o'er the sunny glade
One fallsmtbe rest, wide-scattered with affright,
Yanish at once into the darkest shade.

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warned,
Still need repeated warnings, and at last,
A thousand awful admonitions scorned,
Die self-accused of life run all to waste?

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Sad waste! for which no after thrift atones:
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin;
Dew-drops may deck the turf that bides the bones,
But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.

Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught
Of all these sepulchres, instructors true,
That, soon or late, death also is your lot,
And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

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