THE THREE WARNINGS.

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

That love of life increas'd 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 pleas'd to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobson's wedding day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave, "You must," says he,

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'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you?" the hapless husband cried;

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Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd;
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding day, you know.”
What more he urg'd I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spar'd,
And left to live a little longer.

G

Yet, calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
"Neighbour," he said, "farewell; no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And, farther, 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 summon'd 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 pleas'd the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he liv'd, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse,
The willing Muse shall tell:

He chaffer'd, then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He pass'd his hours in peace.

But while he view'd his wealth increase,

MRS. THRALE.

While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

Th' unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
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 forty years at least,

And you are now fourscore!"

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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," says Death.
"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."

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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;
So come along! no more we'll part:"
He said, and touch'd him with his dart:
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate. So ends my tale.

Mrs. Thrale, who was born in January, 1740 or 1741, it is not certain which, became acquainted with Dr. Johnson, in the year 1764. She was at that time the wife of Mr. Thrale, the eminent brewer of Southwark. Johnson and the Thrales were mutually Mr. Thrale invited him frequently to see them; until at last he became one of the family, and an apartment was appropriated to him both in their house at Southwark and Streatham. After Mr. Thrale's death, the widow became Mrs. Piozzi, and died at an advanced age.

pleased with each other.

THOMAS GRAY.

BORN, 1716; DIED, 1771.

Principal Works.—Elegy written in a Country Church-Yard, Ode to Eton College, The Progress of Poetry, The Bard, On Spring, On Adversity.

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.