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 hope 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 here before
'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.
Besides, 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:
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 this tale.
BY GEORGE CRABBE.-1754-1832.
[The most favourite of the poems of this author are the "Borough " and the "Tales of the Hall," which are characterised by interest of narrative, simplicity of language, and touching truthfulness-minute in descriptive power, appealing to the homeliest understanding, Crabbe's poems will always retain their hold of public estimation. The poet was a native of Aldborough, in Suffolk, and was brought up to the medical profession, but afterwards entered the Church; he was chaplain to the Duke of Rutland, and in 1815 appointed to the living of Trowbridge.]
ES! there are real mourners: I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd:
Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid;
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In every place she wander'd where they'd been,
And sadly sacred held the parting scene;
Where last for sea he took his leave-that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd,-"This once, and then the day."
Yet prudence tarried; but when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.
Happy he sail'd; and great the care she took
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look :
White was his better linen, and his cheek
Was made more trim than any on the deck ;
And every comfort men at sea can know
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow :
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak ;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain ;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message-"Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go!—if not, this trifle take,
And say till death I wore it for her sake;
Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer."
He had his wish, had more. I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint,—
With tender fears she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half-succeeding, said,
"Yes, I must die;" and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head:
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think
Yet said not so-" Perhaps he will not sink :"
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