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And for the richest crown on Earth, If valu'd by it's wearer's worth, The symbol of a righteous reign Sat fast on George's brows again. Then peace and joy again possess'd Our Queen's long-agitated breast; Such joy and peace as can be known By suff'rers like herself alone, Who losing, or supposing lost The good on Earth they valu'd most, For that dear sorrow's sake forego All hope of happiness below, Then suddenly regain the prize, And flash thanksgivings to the skies! O Queen of Albion, queen of isles! Since all thy tears were chang'd to smiles, The eyes, that never saw thee, shine With joy not unallied to thine, Transports not chargeable with art Illume the land's remotest part, And strangers to the air of courts, Both in their toils and at their sports, The happiness of answer'd pray'rs, That gilds thy features, show in theirs.

If they, who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,
"Tis but the natural effect,

Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than Queen,
Who is belov'd where never seen.

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,

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,

Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, A sun that ne'er declines,

And be thy mercies show'r'd on those, Who plac'd us where it shines.

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
Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.

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?

* Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton.

No; these were vig'rous 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 mark'd to fall;
The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
With it's new foliage on,

The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,
I pass'd-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 ean health insure

For yet an hour to come;

No medicine, though it oft can cure,
Can always baulk the tomb.

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