What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he liv'd, how wise, how well, How roundly he pursu'd his course,—

And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse,The willing muse shall tell :

He chaffer'd on, he bought, he sold,

Nor once perceiv'd 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;

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.

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 forty or fifty 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 are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant.

Besides, you promis'd 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 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 tho' 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 unjustifi'ble 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.

TH

FABLE XII.

HE morning blush'd with vivid red,
And night in sudden silence fled;

Sad Philomel no more complains,
The lark begins his sprightly strains;
Light paints the flow'rs of various hue,
And sparkles in the pendent dew;
Life moves o'er all the quicken'd green,
And beauty reigns, unrival'd queen.

R

Green as the leaf, on which he lay,
A Caterpillar wak'd to-day:

And look'd around, and chanc'd to 'spy
A leaf of more inviting dye;

From where he lay he crawl'd, and found
The verdant spot's indented bound;
Stretch'd from the verge, he strove to gain
The neighb'ring leaf, but strove in vain.
In that nice moment, prompt to save,
A brother worm this warning gave.

"Oh! turn, advent'rous as thou art, Nor hence, deceiv'd by hope, depart ; What though the leaf, that tempts thee, shows More tasteful food, more soft repose ; What, though with brighter spangles gay, Its dew reflects an earlier ray ?

Oh! think what dangers guard the prize;

Oh! think what dangers; and be wise!
The pass from leaf to leaf forbear;
Behold how high they wave in air!

And should'st thou fall, tremendous thought!
What ruin would avenge thy fault?
Thy mangled carcase, writh'd with pain,
Shall mark with blood the dusty plain :
Then death, the dread of all below,
Thy wish-will surely end thy woe;
Untimely death, for now to die,
Is ne'er to rise a butterfly."

"A Butterfly!" th' Advent'rer cry'd,
"What's that?" "A bird," his friend reply'd,
"To which this reptile form shall rise,

And gorgeous mount the lofty skies;

The joyful season Time shall bring,
He bears it on his rapid wing.

An age there is, when all our kind,

Disdain the ground, and mount the wind: And should thy friend this age attain-" With haste the worm reply'd again,

Say what assurance canst thou give, That I with birds a bird shall live? For could I trust thy pleasing tale, No wanton wish should e'er prevail; For what, that worms obtain, can vie With bliss of birds that wing the sky?" "Believe my words," th' Adviser said, "Since not of private int'rest bred; Not on thy life or death depend My pleasure or my pain-Attend! Like thee, to all the future blind, I knew not wings for worms design'd, Till yon last sun's ascending light Remov'd the dusky shades of night. Soon as his rays, from heav'n sublime, Shone on that leaf you wish to climb; That leaf, which shades, in earliest hours, This less conspicuous spot of ours: Surpris'd, a lovely form I saw,

That touch'd me with delight and awe; 'Twas near, and while my looks betray'd My wonder, thus the Stranger said:

"If view'd by thee with wond'rous eyes My graceful shape and vary'd dyes, New wonder still prepare to feel, Amazing truths my words reveal: