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The tott'ring veffel quivers with the blaff,
And angry clouds obfcure the cheerful day.

Yet why repine?-my anxious breaft, be ftill!
No human blifs is free from foul alloy;
But what at prefent bears the face of ill,

May end in fmiling peace and lasting joy.

Soon may that Pow'r fupreme, whose dread command
Can ftill the tumults of the raging main,
Through paths of danger, with unerring hand,
Guide me to thee and happiness again.

In Him, my Delia! then thy trust repose:
'Tis He alone the joylefs bofom cheers;
He foothes, when abfent, all our heart-felt woes,
At home, our foft domestic scene endears.

THE THREE WARNINGS.

PIOZZI.

T Leaf willing fill to quit the ground;

HE tree of deepest root is found

'Twas therefore faid by ancient fages,
That love of life increas'd with
So much, that in our latter ftages,

years

When pains grow fharp and fickness rages,
The greateft love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confefs but few perceive,
If old affertions can't prevail,
'Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale:

When fports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobfon's wedding-day,
Death call'd afide the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave-" You muft," fays he,

66

Quit your fweet bride and come with me."

With you! and quit my Sufan's fide?
With you! the hapless husband cry'd:
Young as I am, 'tis monftrous hard!
Befides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-night, you know.'

What more he urg'd I have not heard,
His reafons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent fpar'd,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a ferious look,

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His hour-glafs trembled while he fpoke-
Neighbour," he faid, "farewell! no more
Shall Death difburb your mirthful hour;
And farther, to avoid all blame

Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for future ftation,

your

Three fev'ral Warnings you fhall have,
Before you're fummon'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 thefe conditions both confented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he liv'd, how wife, how well,
How roundly he purfu'd his course,
And fmok'd his pipe, and ftrok'd his horse,
The willing mufe fhall tell:

He chaffer'd then, he bought, he fold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not falfe, his wife no fhrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He país'd his hours in peace:

But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along Life's dufty road
The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whofe hafte no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in mufing mood,
As all alone he fat,

Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him flood.

Half kill'd with anger and furprise,
• So foon return'd!" old Dobfon cries;
"So foon! d'ye call it ?" Death replies;
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jeft!
Since I was here before

'Tis fix and thirty years, at least,
And you are now fourscore."

So much the worfe!' the clown rejoin'd;
To fpare the aged would be kind.
However, fee your search be legal;
And your authority-is't regal?

Elfe you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant.

Befides, you promis'd me Three Warnings,

Which I have look'd for nights and mornings;

But, for that lofs of time and ease,

I can recover damages.'

"I know," cries Death, "that, at the best, I feldom am a welcome gueft;

But don't be captious, friend, at least.
I little thought you'd ftill be able
To ftump about your farm and ftable;
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your ftrength !"

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Hold,' fays the farmer, not fo fast! I have been lame these four years past.'

"And no great wonder!" Death replies ; "However, you still keep your eyes; And, fure, to fee one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.”

Perhaps,' fays Dobson, so it might; But latterly I've loft my fight.'

"This is a fhocking story, 'faith; Yet there's fome comfort fill," fays Death: "Each frives your fadness to amuse;

I warrant you

hear all the news."

There's none,' cries he;

and if there were,

I'm grown fo deaf, I could not hear.'

"Nay then!" the spectre ftern rejoin'd,
“These are unjustifi'ble yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your Three fufficient Warnings.

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

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

COWPER.

FORCD from home and all its pleasures,

Afric's wafte I left forlorn,

To increase a stranger's treafures;
O'er the raging billows borne:
Men from England bought and fold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though theirs they have enroll'd me,
Minds are never to be fold.

Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I afk,
Me from my delights to fever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim;

Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in white and black the fame.

Why did all-creating Nature

Make the plant for which we toil?

Sighs muft fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours muft dress the foil.
Think, ye masters iron-hearted!
Lolling at your jovial boards;
Think how many backs have fmarted,
For the fweets your cane affords !

Is there, as you fometimes tell us,
Is there one who reigns on high?

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