The Works of William Cowper Comprising his poems, correspondence, and translations. With a life of the author, by the editor, Robert Southey |
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STANZAS SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE
PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON, Anno Domini 1787. |
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 | The Works of William Cowper |  |
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.
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.
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?
Than in foregoing years?
Did famine or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears?
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No; these were vigorous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waives his claim.
Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waives 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.
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.
With its new foliage on,
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen,
I pass'd,—and they were gone.
Read, ye that run, the aweful truth
With which I charge my page!
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.
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 balk the tomb.
For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it oft can 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.
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!
And, ere he quits the pen,
Begs you for once to take his part,
And answer all—Amen!
| The Works of William Cowper | |