Imatges de pÓgina
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JOHN LANGHORNE.

So breaks on the traveller, faint and
astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of

morn.

See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending,

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending,

When sports went round, and all were
gay,

And beauty immortal awakes from the On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day,
tomb."
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

JOHN LANGHORNE.

[1735-1779.]

THE DEAD.

Or them who, wrapt in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due.

Why else the o'ergrown paths of time

Would thus the lettered sage explore, With pain these crumbling ruins climb, And on the doubtful sculpture pore?

way,

Reclaim his long-asserted spoil,
And lead oblivion into day?

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Why seeks he with unwearied toil,
Through Death's dim walks to urge his And further, to avoid all blame

MRS. THRALE.

MRS. THRALE.

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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 pleased to hear a modern tale.

[1740-1822]

THE THREE WARNINGS.

THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'T was therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages,

And, looking grave, "You must," says he,

"Quit your sweet bride, and come with

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me.

"With you! and quit my Susan's side?
With you!" the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know."

What more he urged I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,

And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke.
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:

Of cruelty upon my naine,
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 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 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,

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"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

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 my tale.

ANNA L. BARBAULD.

[1743-1825.]

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born;

Ye shall not dim the light that streams From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough

To feel your harsh control; Ye shall not violate, this day, The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die;
And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

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!

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