Of talents, judgments, mercies better far
Than opportunity vouchsafed to err

• With less excuse, and haply, worse effect?'
I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,

My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind
I passed, and next considered--what is man?
Knows he his origin? can he ascend

By reminiscence to his earliest date?
Slept he in Adam? and in those from him
Through num'rous generations, till he found
At length his destined moment to be born?
Or was he not, till fashioned in the womb?
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.

It is an evil incident to man,

And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves
Truths useful and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solved, and useless, if it mig.t.
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die.

[toiled

TO THE

SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,

ON HIS TRANSLATING THE AUTHOR'S SONG ON A ROSE INTO ITALIAN VERSE.---1793.

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,
And, steeped not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,
Will never fade again.

ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELY.

TEARS flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
Till all who know him follow to the skies.
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;
Him, wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep---
And justly--few shall ever him transcend

As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

FROM

A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON,

LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH.---1782.

SAYS the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face,
That you are in fashion all over the land,

And I am so much fallen into disgrace.

Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
I give to the company-pray do but note 'em-
You would think that the wise men of Greece were

all there, [Gotham. Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of

My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,

While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; There is nothing but sniv'lling and blowing of noses, Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear.

Then lifting his lid in a delicate way,

And op'ning his mouth with a smile quite engaging, The box in reply was heard plainly to say,

What a silly dispute is this we are waging!

If you have a little of merit to claim,

You may thank the sweet-smelling Viian weed, And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,

The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus,

We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,

But of any thing else they may choose to put in us.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON.

Pause here, and think: a monitory rhime
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.

Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein ;
Seems it to say- Health here has long to reign?”
Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth, oft-times healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never sees;

And many a tomb, like HAMILTON's, aloud
Exclaims, Prepare thee for an early shroud.'

STANZAS,

SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF

THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,

ANNO DOMINI, 1787.

WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,

All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?

Did famine or did plague prevail,

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.

Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are marked to fall;
The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay-tree ever green,
With its new foliage on,

The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen-
I passed-and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the awful truth,
With which I charge my page;
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.

No present health can health insure
For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it oft can cure,
Can always baulk the tomb.

And O! that, humble as my lot,

And scorned 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!