« VorigeDoorgaan »
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
As all alone he sate,
Th' unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood. Half kill'd with anger and surprise, 6 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 years at least,
And you are now fourscore !” “ So much the worse,” the clown rejoin'd; “ To spare the aged would be kind; Beside, you promis'd me Three Warnings, Which I have look'd 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, 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 must make amends.” “Perhaps,” says Dobson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.”
“This is a shocking story, faith : But there's some comfort still, “ Each strives your sadness to amuse ; I warrant you hear all the news.
“ There's none,” cried he: “and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.”
“Nay, then;" the spectre stern rejoin'd, “ Cease, prythee, cease these foolish yearnings ; If you are deaf, and lame, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient warnings ;
FAREWELL TO A MISSIONARY.
HOME, kindred, friends, and country, - these
Are things with which we never part; From clime to clime, o'er land and seas,
We bear them with us in our heart; And yet ’tis hard to feel resign'd, When they must all be left behind.
But when the pilgrim's staff we take,
And follow Christ from shore to shore,
Press on, and only look before ;
Ev'n Jesus wept o’er Lazarus dead;
He had not where to lay his head; The patriot's tears will he condemn, Who griev'd o’er lost Jerusalem !
Take up your cross, and say — “Farewell :
Go forth without the camp to Him,
Who died his murderers to redeem :
Hear, and come forth to life anew ;
Then, while the Gentile courts they fill,
Home, kindred, friends, and country still,
I look'd upon his brow, no sign
Of guilt or fear was there
As even o'er despair
A spirit that could dare
* In the minority of Otho III. the Romans made a bold attempt to shake off the yoke of the German emperors, and to recover their ancient form of government. Crescentius, a noble Roman, was their leader. He twice rose to the command of the city, under the title of consul, and, during the sixteen years that he administered affairs, Rome enjoyed comparative peace and security. Crescentius refused to acknowledge the authority of the emperor to interpose in the election of the popes; expelled John XV. until he had acknowledged the sovereignty of the people, and when, on his He stood, the fetters on his hand,
He rais’d them haughtily ;
It could not wave on high
On many a torture nigh;
I saw him once before ; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,
And bade their warrior speed.
Of many a soldier's deed;
But now he stood chain'd and alone,
The headsman by his side,
The sword which had defied
Came from that lip of pride;
death, Otho sent Gregory V. to succeed him, Crescentius chose one himsclf. In 998 Otho marched against Rome, besieged and took the city, and crushed all further resistance by the execution of Crescentius, who had shut himself in the castle of St. Angelo, and had surrendered himself only on the promise of safety. Such is the patriot hero Sismondi makes of Crescentius, but the annals of the tenth century are involved in obscurity, and the German historians represent him in different characters.
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;
Who throng'd to see him die.
A nation's funeral cry,
WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.
THERE, in that bed so closely curtain'd round,
THE CLOSING YEAR.
The closing year
a startling sound,