“I die assur’d!” and in a Rapture dies? Ah, where that humble, self-abasing Mind, With that confiding Spirit shall we find; The Mind that feeling what Repentance brings, Dejection’s terrors and Contrition’s stings, Has then the hope that Heav’n its grief approve And the pure joy that flows from Pardoning Love? Such have I seen in Death, and much deplore, So many dying--that I see no more: Lo! now my Records, where I grieve to trace, How Death has triumph’d in so short a space; Who are the Dead, how died they, I relate, And snatch some portion of their Acts from Fate. With _Andrew Collet_ we the Year begin, The blind, fat Landlord of the Old Crown-Inn: Big as his Butt and for the self-same use, To take in stores of strong fermenting Juice. On his huge Chair beside the Fire he sate, In Revel Chief, and Umpire in Debate; Each night his string of vulgar Tales he told; When Ale was cheap and Bachelors were bold; His Heroes all were famous in their Days, Cheats were his boast and Drunkards had his praise; “One in three Draughts, three Mugs of Ale took down, “As Mugs were then--the Champion of the Crown; “For thrice three days another liv’d on Ale, “And knew no Change but that of Mild and Stale; “Two thirsty Soakers watch’d a Vessel’s side, “When he the Tap, with dextrous hand, applied; “Nor from their seats departed, till they found, “That Butt was out and heard the mournful Sound.” He prais’d a Poacher, precious child of Fun! Who shot the Keeper with his own Spring-gun; Nor less the Smuggler who the Exciseman tied, And left him hanging at the Birch-wood side, There to expire;--but one who saw him hang, Cut the good Cord--a Traitor of the Gang. His own Exploits, with boastful glee, he told, What Ponds he empty’d and what Pikes he sold; And how, when blest with sight alert and gay, The Night’s Amusements kept him through the Day. He sang the Praises of those Times, when all “For Cards and Dice, as for their Drink, might call; “When Justice wink’d on every jovial Crew, “And Ten-pins tumbled in the Parson’s view.” He told, when angry Wives, provok’d to rail, Or drive a third-day Drunkard from his Ale; What were his Triumphs and how great the Skill, That won the vex’d Virago to his Will; Who raving came;--then talk’d in milder strain,-- Then wept,--then drank and pledg’d her Spouse again. Such were his Themes: how Knaves o’er Laws prevail, Or when made captives, how they fly from Jail; The Young how brave, how subtle were the Old: And Oaths attested all that Folly told. On Death like his what name shall we bestow, So very sudden! yet so very slow? ’Twas slow:--Disease augmenting year by year, Show’d the grim King by gradual steps brought near: ’Twas not less sudden;--in the night he died,