He pass'd his smiling hours in peace;
And still he view'd his wealth increase,
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-
When, lo! one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,

The 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, do you call it ?" Death replies
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ;
Since I was here before,

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

"So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd; "To spare the aged would be kind:

Besides you promised me Three warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings: And for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

"I know," says 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 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 may make amends."

Perhaps," says Dobson," so it might,
But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking tale, in truth;
But there's some comfort still," says Death

"Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news."

"There's none," he cries; " and if there were, I'm grown so deaf I could not hear."

Nay then," the spectre stern rejoin'd,
These are unjustifiable yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You have 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.

The Razor-Seller.

A fellow in a market town,

Most musical cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence ;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite à heap,

Piozzi.

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge! who suffer'd by a thick, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose !

"No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave:

It sartinly will be a monstrous prize :"
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:

"Twas a vile razor !-then the rest he tried-
All were impostors-"Ah," Hodge sigh'd!

"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamp'd, and swore;

Brought blood and danced, blasphemed and made

wry faces,

And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er!
His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clinch'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
"Razors ! a damn'd confounded dog,

Not fit to scrape a hog !"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and began'Perhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster-knives.

Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,

To cry up razors that can't shave."

Friend," quoth the razor-man, " I am no knave:
As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul I never thought

That they would shave."

"Not think they'd shave !" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries ; "Made !" quoth the fellow, with a smile,-" to sell."

Pindar.

Childe Harold's Song.

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,"
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-Good night!
A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies-
But not my mother earth;
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate ;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall-
My dog howls at the gate.

Come hither, hither, my little page,
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along.

Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind:

For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee and One above.

My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh,
'Till I come back again--
Enough, enough, my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye-
If I thy guiltless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry!

Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so palé?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman,
Or shiver at the gale?

Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
My spouse's boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?

Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, that am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.

For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of friend or paramour?
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes,
We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea :'
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But, long ere I come back again,

He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine,

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

So not again to mine !

T

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves kat when you fail my sight,

And

Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves

My native land,Good nights! yo e'd Byron.