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“ My stockings there I often knit,
My 'kerchief there I hem,
I sit and sing to them ;
“ When it is light and fair,
“ In bed she moaning lay,
“ And then she went away.
“ And, all the summer day,
My brother John and I. “ And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
“And he lies by her side.
“ If they two are in heaven?” The little maiden did reply,
Oh, master, we are seven.” “ But they are dead, those two are dead,
“ Their spirits are in heaven." 'Twas throwing words away, for still, The little maid would have her will,
And said, “ Nay, we are seven.”
THE THREE WARNINGS.Mrs. Thrale.
The tree of deepest root is found
'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 neighbour 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 prepar'd:
My thoughts on other matters go, “ This is my wedding-day, 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 “ 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 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,
“ Well pleased the world will leave."
The willing muse shall tell.
Nor thought of death as near :
He passed his hours in peace.
Brought on his eightieth year.
As all alone he sate,
The 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-forty years at least,
“ And you are now fourscore !" “ So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd, “To spare the aged would be kind; “ Beside, 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 ears have run to a great length : “ I wish you joy, though, 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 tale, 'tis true, “ But still there's comfort left for you ; “ 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 unjustifiable 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.
FROM SOME OF
OUR MOST ADMIRED POETS.
SPENSER FROM AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY LOVE. O Thou most blessed Spirit, pure lampe of light,
Eternal spring of grace and wisdome true,
Some little drop of thy celestial dew,
And give me words equall unto my thought,
To tell the marveiles by thy mercy wrought. Rouze, lift thyself, O earth, out of thy soyle,
In which thou wallow'st like to filthy swine,
Unmindful of that dearest LORD of thine ;
That thou His soveraigne bounty maist behold,
And read through love His mercies manifold. Begin from first where He encradled was
In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay,
When Him the silly shepheards came to see,