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roses are blending,
When pains grow sharp and sickness
The greatest love of life appears.
When sports went round, and all were
And beauty immortal awakes from the On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day,
Or them who, wrapt in earth so cold,
For many a tender thought is due.
Why else the o'ergrown paths of time
Why seeks he with unwearied toil,
Death called aside the jocund groom
And, looking grave, "You must," says
"Quit your sweet bride, and come with
"With you! and quit my Susan's side?
What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
And left to live a little longer.
Through Death's dim walks to urge his And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my naine,
To give you time for preparation,
And grant a kind reprieve,
Well pleased the world will leave."
What next the hero of our tale befell,
The willing muse shall tell:
Nor thought of Death as near:
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 '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 know," cries Death, "that at the best
I seldom am a welcome guest;
"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, 't is 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
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." "Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,
"These are unjustifiable yearnings:
So come along, no more we 'll part."
ANNA L. BARBAULD.
THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.
SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born;
Ye shall not dim the light that streams
To-morrow will be time enough
Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. SWEET is the scene when virtue dies!
When sinks a righteous soul to rest, How mildly beam the closing eyes, How gently heaves the expiring breast! So fades a summer cloud away, So sinks the gale when storins are o'er, So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore.
Triumphant smiles the victor brow,
Fanned by some angel's purple wing;— Where is, O grave! thy victory now? And where, insidious death! thy sting?
Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, Where light and shade alternate dwell!
TO THE CUCKOO.
HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
What time the daisy decks the green,
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
The school-boy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,
What time the pea puts on the bloom,
An annual guest in other lands,
Sweet bird thy bower is ever green,
No winter in thy year!
O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
THY banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream,