Could I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage <br />To whom the rising year shall prove his last, <br />As I can number in my punctual page, <br />And item down the victims of the past; <br /> <br />How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet <br />On which the press might stamp him next to die; <br />And, reading here his sentence, how replete <br />With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye! <br /> <br />Time then would seem more precious than the joys <br />In which he sports away the treasure now; <br />And prayer more seasonable than the noise <br />Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow. <br /> <br />Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink <br />Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, <br />Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, <br />Told that his setting sun must rise no more. <br /> <br />Ah self-deceived! Could I prophetic say <br />Who next is fated, and who next to fall, <br />The rest might then seem privileged to play; <br />But, naming none, the voice now speaks to all. <br /> <br />Observe the dappled foresters, how light <br />They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade; <br />One falls -- the rest, wide scattered with affright, <br />Vanish at one into the darkest shade. <br /> <br />Had we their wisdom, should we, often warned, <br />Still need repeated warnings, and at last, <br />A thousand awful admonitions scorned, <br />Die self-accused of life run all to waste? <br /> <br />Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones! <br />The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin; <br />Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones, <br />But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within. <br /> <br />Learn then, ye living! by the mouths be taught <br />Of all those sepulchres, instructors true, <br />That, soon or late, death also is your lot, <br />And the next opening grave may yawn for you.<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stanzas-subjoined-to-the-yearly-bill-of-mortality-of-the-parish-of-all-saints-northampton-anno-domini-1788/
