Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop;
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-
I've seen-and sure I ought to know”.
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wild they past,
And on their way in friendly chat
Now talk'd of this, and then of that,
Discours'd a while 'mongst other matter,
Of the Camelion's form and nature.

A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never liv'd beneath the sun :
A lizard's body lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue;
Its tooth with triple claw disjoin'd;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace, and then its hue-
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold there," the other quick replies, "'Tis green-I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warm'd itself in sunny ray; Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, And saw it eat the air for food."

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue: At leisure I the beast survey'd,

Extended in the cooling shade."

"'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." Green!" cries the other in a fury.

Why, sir-d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" "'Twere no great loss," the friend replies;

For, if they always serve you thus,

You'll find 'em but of little use."

So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third-
To him the question they refer'd ;
And begg'd he'd tell 'em, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.

Sirs," cries the umpire, “cease your pother—
The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And view'd it o'er by candle light:
I mark'd it well-'twas black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I 've got it yet,
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do:
I'll lay my life, the thing is blue."

"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."

Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."
He said; then full before their sight
Produc'd the beast, and lo! 'twas white.
Both star'd, the man look'd wondrous wise-
"My children," the Camelion cries,

Then first the creature found a tongue,
"You all are right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see, as well as you :

Nor wonder, if you find that none
Prefers your eye-sight to his own."

TH

Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increas'd with years:
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room:

And looking grave,-" You must," says he,
Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."
"With you! and quit my Susan's side!
With you!" the hapless husband cry'd:
"Young as I am; 'tis monstrous hard;
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd:
My thoughts on other matters go,
This is my wedding-night, you know."

What more he urg'd I have not heard :
His reasons could not well be stronger;
For Death the poor delinquent spar'd,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembling 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 summon'd 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 pleas'd the world will leave.”
To these conditions both consented,
And parted, perfectly contented.

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?