Classic Poem

For the year 1788

Could I, from heav'n inspir'd, as sure presage
To whom the rising year shall prove the last,
As I can number in my punctual page,
And item down the victims of the past;

How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet
On which the press might stamp him next to die;
And, reading here his sentence, how replete
With anxious meaning, heav'nward cast his eye.

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

Then, doubtless, many a trifler, on the brink
Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore,
Forc'd to a pause, would feel it good to think,
Told that his setting sun would rise no more.

Ah! self-deceiv'd! could I prophetic say
Who next is fated, and who next shall fall,
The rest might then seem privileg'd 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 falls — the rest, wide scatter'd with affright,
Vanish at once into the thickest shade.

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd,
Still need repeated warnings; and at last,
A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,
Die self-accus'd of life all run to waste?

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

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