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The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast: Their's buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That iy the approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
Nor care beyond to-day:
And black Misfortune's baleful train :
Ah, tell them they are men!
These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
And Shame that skulks behind;
That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy.
That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
Amid severest woe.
Lo! in the Vale of Years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,
More hideous than their queen:
Those in the deeper vitals rage :
And slow-consuming Age.
To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own.
And happiness too swiftly flies.
THE THREE WARNINGS.
THE tree of deepest root is found
That love of life increased with years
When sports went round and all were gay,
15 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 ? 't is monstrous hard- 20 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:
And left to live a little longer.
“Neighbour,” he said, “ farewell ; no more
for your future station,
And grant a kind reprieve ;
Well-pleased the world will leave.”
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
The willing Muse shall tell :
Nor thought of Death as near;
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night in musing mood,
Once more before him stood.
Half-kill'd with anger and surprise,
70 'T is six-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fourscore.” “So much the worse,” the clown rejoin'd;
spare the aged would be kind : However, see your search be legal;
75 And your authority, is 't regal ? Else you come on a fool's errand, With but a Secretary's warrant. Besides you promised me three warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings: 80 But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages.”
“I know,” cries Death, “that, at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest : But be not captious, friend, at least :
85 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.” “Hold,” says the farmer, “not so fast; 90 I have been lame these four years past.”
“And no great wonder,” Death replies;