Classic Poem

Printed at the bottom of the yearly bill of mortality of the town of Northampton;
Dec. 21, 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 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 its 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 can health insure
For yet an hour to come;
No med'cine, though it often cure,
Can always balk the tomb.

And oh! 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,
Begs you for once to take his part,
And answer all — Amen!