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 fly the approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day: 45 50 Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, 70 To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of falsehood those shall try, 75 80 85 That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, Lo! in the Vale of Years beneath The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate? Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies. GRAY. THE THREE WARNINGS. THE tree of deepest root is found This great affection to believe, When sports went round and all were gay, And looking grave, “You must," says he, Young as I am? 'tis monstrous hard- What more he urged I have not heard; His reasons could not well be stronger: "Neighbour," 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 grant a kind reprieve; Well-pleased the world will leave." What next the hero of our tale befell, 30 335 40 45 Nor once perceived his growing old, How long he lived, how wise, how well, How roundly he pursued his course, And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold, Nor thought of Death as near; 50 His friends not false, his wife no shrew, He pass'd his hours in peace: 55 But while he view'd his wealth increase, The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, And now, one night in musing mood, The unwelcome messenger of Fate Half-kill'd with anger and surprise, Since I was here before, "T is six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore." "So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd; However, see your search be legal; Besides you promised me three warnings, C5 70 75 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: "Hold,” says the farmer, "not so fast; I have been lame these four years past." "And no great wonder," Death replies; 85 90 |