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Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears control :
Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms,
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then, when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye; —
When, trembling, on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state,
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And, having lived to thee, in thee to die !

LESSON CXXX.

The Three Warnings. Mrs. TARALE.

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground.
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased 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 pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbor Dobson's wedding-day,

Death called 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 cried ;

Young as I am ? 'Tis monstrous hard !
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared :
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-night, 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;
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 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 wisely, — and 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, he 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,

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,

When all alone he sate, Th' unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood. Half killed with anger and surprise, “ So soon returned !” 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-thirty years, at least,

And you are now fourscore."

“ So much the worse!” the clown rejoined: "To spare the aged would be kind : Besides, you promised me three warnings, Which I have looked 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, though, of your strength."

66

“ 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 rejoined,

“ These are unwarrantable 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 Dobson, turning pale, Yields to his fate so ends my tale.

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Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun

Of the enemy, suddenly firing,

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory:
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone;

But we left him alone with his glory.

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