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! Yet, calling up a serious look, Well pleased, the world will leave." What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wisely, and how well How roundly he pursued his course, And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, He chaffered then, he bought, he sold, His friends not false, his wife no shrew, He passed his hours in peace. But, while he viewed his wealth increase, The beaten track content he trod, Brought on his eightieth year. And now, one night, in musing mood, Th' unwelcome messenger of fate Half killed with anger and surprise, Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! 'Tis six-and-thirty years, at least, And you are now fourscore." "So much the worse!" the clown rejoined: Besides, you promised me three warnings, But don't be captious, friend, at least. I little thought you'd still be able "Hold!" says the farmer, "not so fast : Death: "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 unwarrantable 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. LESSON CXXXI. The Burial of Sir John Moore. WOLFE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory: LESSON CXXXII. Extract from a Speech on the British Treaty. FISHER AMES, It is painful, I hope it is superfluous, to make even the supposition that America should furnish the occasion of this opprobrium. No, let me not even imagine that a republican government, sprung, as our own is, from a people enlightened and uncorrupted, a government whose origin is right, and whose daily discipline is duty,—can, upon solemn debate, make its option to be faithless; can dare to act what despots dare not avow, what our own example evinces the states of Barbary are unsuspected of. No, let me rather make the supposition that Great Britain refuses to execute the treaty, after we have done every thing to carry it into effect. Is there any language of reproach pungent enough to express your commentary on the fact? What would you say? or, rather, what would you not say? Would you not tell them, wherever an Englishman might travel, shame would stick to him: he would disown his country. You would exclaim, "England, proud of your wealth, and arrogant in the possession of power, blush for these distinctions, which become the vehicles of your dishonor!" Such a nation might truly say to corruption, Thou art my father, and to the worm, Thou art my mother and my sister." We should say of such a race of men, "Their name is a heavier burden than their debt.” I can scarcely persuade myself to believe that the consideration I have suggested requires the aid of any auxiliary; but, unfortunately, auxiliary arguments are at hand. Five millions of dollars, and probably more, on the score of spoliations committed on our commerce, depend upon the treaty: the treaty offers the only prospect of indemnity. Such redress is promised as the merchants place some confidence in. Will you interpose and frustrate that hope, leaving to many fam |