With you!" the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, 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-
"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,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you're summoned 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 chaffered, then he bought and 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 passed his hours in peace.

But while he viewed his wealth increase,
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 sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half-killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" old Dodson cries. "So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies: Surely, my friend, you're but in jest? Since I was here before

66

"Tis six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore."

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

Beside, you promised me Three Warnings,

Which I have looked 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 don't be 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 Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you: 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 rejoined, "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 touched him with his dart. And now old Dodson turning pale, Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.

Reb. Thomas Moss. {

Born 1740.

Died 1808.

A CLERGYMAN of Staffordshire, only known by his poem, "The Beggar's Petition," published in 1769.

THE BEGGAR.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor !)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see :
And your condition may be soon like mine,

The child of sorrow, and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter-once the comfort of my age!
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wide stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife-sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Mrs Hunter.

Born 1742.

Died 1821.

ANNE HOME, daughter of Robert Home, of Greenlaw Castle, Berwickshire, was born in 1742. She married John Hunter, a celebrated anatomist. Mrs Hunter was the author of several beautiful lyrical poems, some of which were set to music by Haydn.

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.

WHEN hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be revealed.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

"Yet such the lot by thousands cast
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

But nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come;

And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderers home.

Born 1743.

Mrs Barbauld.

Died 1825.

ANN LETITIA AIKEN was born in Leicestershire, in 1743. Her father, Dr Aikin, was classical tutor in an academy. In 1773 she published a volume of miscellaneous poems which met with great success. In 1774 she married a French Protestant clergyman, the Rev. R. Barbauld, who had opened a boarding-school in Suffolk. In 1802 Mr Barbauld became pastor at Stoke-Newington, where he laboured till his death in 1808. Mrs Barbauld is the author of many poetical and prose works. Her lyrical pieces are sweet and harmonious; and her "Evenings at Home," and other prose works have been circulated in tens of thousands. She died in 1825.

HYMN TO CONTENT.

O THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:

Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth the unaltered brow.
O come, in simple vest arrayed,
With all thy sober cheer displayed,
To bless my longing sight;

Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears,
A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temperate joys in even-tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offered blow.