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, Well pleased the world will leave." 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 chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold, Nor once perceived his growing old, c Nor thought of Death as near; His friends not false, his wife no shrew, But while he view'd his wealth increase, The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Brought on his eightieth year. And now one night in musing mood, As all alone he sate, The unwelcome messenger of Fate 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-thirty 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; Besides you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings: I can recover damages." ," cries Death," that, at the best, 66 I know," I seldom am a welcome guest: 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 rejoin'd, "These are unjustifiable yearnings; If you are Lame, and Deaf, and Blind, You've had your Three sufficient Warnings. 16 So come along, no more we'll part:" HYMN TO HUMANITY. BY DR. LANGHORNE. PARENT of virtue, if thine ear, Attend not now to sorrow's cry; Should haply on thy cheek be dry; Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity! Come, ever welcome to my breast! A tender, but a cheerful guest; For sorrow, long-indulged and slow, Is to Humanity a foe; And grief, that makes the heart its prey, Wears sensibility away: Then comes, sweet nymph, instead of thee, The gloomy fiend, Stupidity. O may that fiend be banish'd far, If the fair star of fortune smile, If Heaven, in every purpose wise, |