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 assented,
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, 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 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 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 rejoined:
"To spare the aged would be kind :
Besides, you promised me Three Warnings,
Which I have looked for nights and mornings.
"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 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;
66 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, "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 Dobson, turning pale, Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.
MRS. THRALE, 1739-1821.
THE HOUR OF PRAYER.
CHILD amidst the flowers at play,
While the daylight fades away-
Mother with thy watchful eye
Ever following silently-
Father by the breeze of eve,
Called thy harvest work to leave-
Pray, ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.
Traveller in a foreign land,
Far from thine own household band
Mourner haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone-
Captive in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell--
Sailor on the darkening sea,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.
Workman, when thy labour's o'er,
Resting at thy cottage door-
Toiler at the busy loom-
Maiden in life's early bloom-
Ye who triumph, ye who sigh,
Kindled by one holy tie-
Heaven's first star alike ye see,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.
FELICIA HEMANS, 1793-1835.
SWEET lavender! I love thy flower
Of meek and modest. blue,
Which meets the morn and evening hour
The storm, the sunshine, and the shower,
And changeth not its hue.
In cottage-maid's parterre thou'rt seen,
In simple touching grace;
And in the garden of the queen,
'Midst costly plants and blossoms sheen,
Thou also hast a place.
The rose, with bright and peerless bloom,
Attracteth many eyes;
But while her glories and perfume
Expire before brief summer's doom,
Thy fragrance never dies.
Thou art not like the fickle train,
Our adverse fates estrange;
Who, in the day of grief and pain,
Are found deceitful, light, and vain,
For thou dost never change.
But thou art emblem of the friend,
Who, whatsoe'er our lot,
The balm of faithful love will lend,
And, true and constant to the end,
May die, but alters not.
ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Looked o'er the wide worn steep.
A bark, from India's coral strand,
Before the rushing blast,
Had veiled her topsails to the sand,
And bowed her noble mast.
The queenly ship! brave hearts had striven,
And true ones died with her;
We saw her mighty cable riven,
Like floating gossamer;
We saw her proud flag struck that morn,
A star once o'er the seas;
Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn,-
And sadder things than these.
We saw her treasures cast away,
The rocks with pearl were sown;
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flashed out o'er fretted stone;
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze,
And gorgeous robes,-but oh! the shore
Had sadder sights than these.
We saw the strong man, still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside;
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died;
And near him on the sea-weed lay,
Till then we had not wept,
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept;
For her pale arms a babe had pressed
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.
Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form,
Where still their wet, long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.
BEFORE BREAKFAST.
And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like slumbers trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye;
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony.
Oh, human love! whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu !
Surely thou hast another lot,
There is some hour for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!
FELICIA HEMANS, 1793-1835.
BEFORE BREAKFAST.
I SPRING from my lightly pressed pillow
To tread the gay sunshiny floor,
And greet the young glittering billow,
Whose surf almost reaches our door.
Now the cliff spreads its cheerful adorning
Of matted sea-pink under foot,
The lark gives me "Top of the morning,"
The sailing boat nods a salute.
Already, with new sea-born graces,
Comes many a bright-featured maid; Peep children's damp hair and fresh faces From straw hat's or sun-bonnet's shade.
With whisper alone for my hearing,
Clear trembles my tide-brimming pool,
Head first from the bank disappearing,
I waver,* embraced by the cool,-
Join salmon and gull in their pleasures,-
Then home to my sweet human fare.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
* Waver, to move one way and the other.
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