Shines now on story's page with purest flame?
O people happy in your sturdy hearts!
Say, when shall Peace pack up these bloody darts, And send us all, like you, to softer arts?
DEATH never taketh by surprise
The well-prepared, to wit, the wise-
They knowing of themselves the time
To meditate the final change of clime.
That time, alas! embraces all
Which into hours and minutes we divide;
There is no part, however small,
That from this tribute one can hide.
The very moment, oft, which bids
The heirs of empire see the light
Is that which shuts their fringed lids
In everlasting night.
Defend yourself by rank and wealth,
Plead beauty, virtue, youth, and health,-
Unblushing Death will ravish all;
The world itself shall pass beneath his pall.
No truth is better known; but, truth to say,
No truth is oftener thrown away.
A man, well in his second century,
Complain'd that Death had call'd him suddenly; Had left no time his plans to fill,
To balance books, or make his will. 'O Death,' said he, d'ye call it fair,
Without a warning to prepare,
To take a man on lifted leg?
O, wait a little while, I beg.
My wife cannot be left alone;
I must set out my nephew's son,
And let me build my house a wing,
Before you strike, O cruel king!
'Old man,' said Death, 'one thing is sure,—
My visit here's not premature.
Hast thou not lived a century!
Darest thou engage to find for me?
In Paris' walls two older men
Has France, among her millions ten?
Thou say'st I should have sent thee word
Thy lamp to trim, thy loins to gird,
And then my coming had been meet—
Thy will engross'd,
Thy house complete!
Did not thy feelings notify?
Did not they tell thee thou must die?
Thy taste and hearing are no more;
Thy sight itself is gone before;
For thee the sun superfluous shines,
And all the wealth of Indian mines;
Thy mates I've shown thee dead or dying.
What's this, indeed, but notifying ?
Come on, old man, without reply;
For to the great and common weal
It doth but little signify
Whether thy will shall ever feel
The impress of thy hand and seal.'
And Death had reason,-ghastly sage!
For surely man, at such an age,
Should part from life as from a feast,
Returning decent thanks, at least,
To Him who spread the various cheer,
And unrepining take his bier;
For shun it long no creature can.
Repinest thou, grey-headed man ?
See younger mortals rushing by
To meet their death without a sigh-
Death full of triumph and of fame,
But in its terrors still the same.-
But, ah! my words are thrown away!
Those most like Death most dread his sway.
II. THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER.
A COBBLER sang from morn till night;
'Twas sweet and marvellous to hear,
His trills and quavers told the ear
Of more contentment and delight,
Enjoy'd by that laborious wight
Than e'er enjoy'd the sages seven,
Or any mortals short of heaven.
His neighbour, on the other hand,
With gold in plenty at command,
But little sang, and slumber'd less-
A financier of great success.
If e'er he dozed, at break of day,
The cobbler's song drove sleep away;
And much he wish'd that Heaven had made
Sleep a commodity of trade,
In market sold, like food and drink,
So much an hour, so much a wink.
At last, our songster did he call
To meet him in his princely hall.
Said he,Now, honest Gregory,
What may your yearly earnings be?'
'My yearly earnings! faith, good sir,
I never go, at once, so far,'
The cheerful cobbler said,
And queerly scratch'd his head,—
'I never reckon in that way,
But cobble on from day to day,
Content with daily bread.'
'Indeed! Well, Gregory, pray,
What may your earnings be per day?'
'Why, sometimes more and sometimes less.
The worst of all, I must confess,
(And but for which our gains would be
A pretty sight, indeed, to see,)
Is that the days are made so many
In which we cannot earn a penny-
The sorest ill the poor man feels:
They tread upon each other's heels,
Those idle days of holy saints!
And though the year is shingled o'er,
The parson keeps a-finding more! '1
With smiles provoked by these complaints,
Replied the lordly financier,
'I'll give you better cause to sing.
These hundred pounds I hand you here
Will make you happy as a king.
Go, spend them with a frugal heed;
They'll long supply your every need.'
The cobbler thought the silver more
Than he had ever dream'd before,
The mines for ages could produce,
Or world, with all its people, use.
He took it home, and there did hide-
And with it laid his joy aside.
No more of song, no more of sleep,
But cares, suspicions in their stead,
And false alarms, by fancy fed.
His eyes and ears their vigils keep,
And not a cat can tread the floor
But seems a thief slipp'd through the door.
At last, poor man!
Up to the financier he ran,
Then in his morning nap profound:
'O, give me back my songs,' cried he, 'And sleep, that used so sweet to be, And take the money, every pound!'
1 The parson keeps a-finding more!-Under the old régime of France the parish priest of each church had usually every Sunday, at sermon time, to announce more than one religious fast or feast for the coming week, which the poor at least were expected to observe.
III. THE LION, THE WOLF, AND THE FOX.1
A LION, old, and impotent with gout,
Would have some cure for age found out.
Impossibilities, on all occasions,
With kings, are rank abominations.
This king, from every species,-
For each abounds in every sort,-
Call'd to his aid the leeches.
They came in throngs to court,
From doctors of the highest fee
To nostrum-quacks without degree,-
Advised, prescribed, talk'd learnedly;
But with the rest
Came not Sir Cunning Fox, M.D.
Sir Wolf the royal couch attended,
And his suspicions there express'd.
Forthwith his majesty, offended,
Resolved Sir Cunning Fox should come,
And sent to smoke him from his home.
He came, was duly usher'd in,
And, knowing where Sir Wolf had been,
Said, 'Sire, your royal ear
Has been abused, I fear,
By rumours false and insincere ;
To wit, that I've been self-exempt
From coming here, through sheer contempt.
But, sire, I've been on pilgrimage,
By vow expressly made,
Your royal health to aid,
And, on my way, met doctors sage,
In skill the wonder of the age,
Whom carefully I did consult
About that great debility
Term'd in the books senility,
Of which you fear, with reason, the result.
You lack, they say, the vital heat,
By age extreme become effete.
1 Æsop; also Bidpaii, and Lokman.
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