Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increas
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,
Th' 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 ;
Surely, my friend, you're but in jest :
Since I was here before,
"Tis 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,
Which I have look'd for nights and mornings:
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; 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; Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death: 'Each strives your sadness to amuse: 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.
CCXXXIV. ANONYMOUS, (1765).
AMERICAN TAXATION.
It is a wealthy people
Who sojourn in that land;
Their churches all with steeples
Most delicately stand;
Their houses, like the gilly,
Are painted white and gay;
They flourish like the lily
In North Americay.
Their land with milk and honey
Continually doth flow;
The want of food or money
They very seldom know.
They heap up golden treasure;
They have no debts to pay;
They spend their time in pleasure
In North Americay.
On turkeys, fowls, and fishes
Most frequently they dine;
With well-replenished dishes
Their tables always shine.
They crown their feasts with butter;
They eat and rise to pray;
In silks their ladies flutter
In North Americay.
CCXXXV. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD,
1743-1825.
Observe the insect race, ordained to keep
The lazy Sabbath of a half-year's sleep.
Entomb'd beneath the filmy web they lie,
And wait the influence of a kinder sky.
When vernal sunbeams pierce their dark retreat,
The heaving tomb distends with vital heat;
The full-formed brood, impatient of their cell,
Start from their trance, and burst their silken shell,
Trembling awhile they stand, and scarcely dare
To launch at once upon the untried air.
At length assured, they catch the favouring gale,
And leave their sordid spoils and high in ether sail.
Lo! the bright train their radiant wings unfold,
With silver fringed, and freckled o'er with gold.
On the gay bosom of some fragrant flower,
They, idly fluttering, live their little hour;
Their life all pleasure, and their task all play,
All spring their age, and sunshine all their day.
Not so the child of sorrow, wretched man :
His course with toil concludes, with pain began,
That his high destiny he might discern,
And in misfortune's school this lesson learn-
Pleasure's the portion of the inferior kind;
But glory, virtue, heaven for man designed.
CCXXXVI. Mrs HANNAH MORE, 1744–1833. 1. SMALL HABITS.
Small habits well pursued betimes
May reach the dignity of crimes.
Truth has our reverence only, not our love;
Our praise but not our heart; a deity
Confessed but shunned; acknowledged, not adored.
Alarmed we dread her penetrating beams;
She comes too near us, and too brightly shines.
3. SMALL SOCIETIES.
In men this blunder still you find,
All think their little set mankind.
CCXXXVII. WILLIAM HAYLEY, 1745-1820.
1. EPITAPH ON COWPER.
Ye who with warmth the public triumph feel
Of talents dignified by sacred zeal,
Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just,
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust!
England, exulting in his spotless fame,
Ranks with her dearest sons his favourite name.
Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise
So clear a title to affection's praise :
His highest honours to the heart belong;
His virtues formed the magic of his song.
2. ON HIS OWN POETRY.
For me who feel, whene'er I touch the lyre,
My talents sink below my proud desire;
Who often doubt, and sometimes credit give,
When friends assure me that my verse will live ;
Whom health, too tender for the bustling throng,
Led into pensive shade and soothing song;
Whatever fortune my unpolished rhymes
May meet in present or in future times,
Let the blest art my grateful thoughts employ,
Which soothes my sorrow and augments my joy;
Whence lonely peace and social pleasure springs,
And friendship dearer than the smile of kings.
COXXXVIII. CHARLES DIBDIN, 1745-1833.
Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew,
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair.
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many's the time and oft;
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When he who all commands
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus death, who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd ;
For though his body's under-hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.
CCXXXIX. MICHAEL BRUCE, 1746–1767.
A RUSTIC SCENE.
Behold the village rise,
In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees!
Above whose aged tops the joyful swains,
At even-tide descending from the hill,
With eye enamoured, mark the many wreaths
Of pillared smoke, high curling to the clouds.
The streets resound with Labour's various voice,
Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green,
Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair,
Trip, nimble-footed, wanton in their play,
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