To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy.

The stings of falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo! in the Vale of Years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

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That every labouring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

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To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate?

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Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more ;-where ignorance is bliss,
"T is folly to be wise.

100

GRAY.

THE THREE WARNINGS.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground
"T was therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pain grows sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave, "You must," says he,
"Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'
"With you? and quit my Susan's side?
With you?" the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am? 't is monstrous hard-
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared;
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding night, you know.”

What more he urged I have not heard;

His reasons could not well be stronger: So Death the poor delinquent spared,

And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,

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"Neighbour," he said, "farewell; no more

Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And further, to avoid all blame

Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation, future station,

And fit you for your

Three several Warnings shall you have,
Before you're summon'd to the grave:
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But when I call again this way,

Well-pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,

How long he lived, how wise, how well,

How roundly he pursued his course,

And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing Muse shall tell:

He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near;

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He pass'd his hours in peace:

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But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road

The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

G

And now, one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half-kill'd with anger and surprise,

"So soon return'd ?" old Dobson cries; "So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies;

05

“Surely, my friend, you're but in jest: Since I was here before,

"T is six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd;
"To spare the aged would be kind:
However, see your search be legal;
And your authority, is 't regal ?
Else you come on a fool's errand,
With but a Secretary's warrant.

Besides you promised me three warnings,

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75

Which I have look'd for nights and mornings: 80

But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, “that, at the best,

I seldom am a welcome guest:

But be not captious, friend, at least:

I little thought you'd still be able

To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length:
I wish you joy, though, of your strength."

"Hold,” says the farmer, "not so fast; I have been lame these four years past."

"And no great wonder," Death replies;

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90

"However, you still keep your eyes;
And sure, to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."
"Perhaps," says Dobson' "so it might;
But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking story, 'faith;

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Yet there's some comfort still," says Death: "Each strives your sadness to amuse :

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I warrant you hear all the news."

"There's none," cries he; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." "Nay then," the spectre stern rejoin'd, "These are unjustifiable yearnings:

If you are Lame, and Deaf, and Blind,
You've had your Three sufficient Warnings.
So come along, no more we 'll part: "
He said, and touch'd him with his dart ;-
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate. So ends my tale.

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110

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But naught can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.