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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 prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-night, you know.”

What more he urged I have not heard;
His reasons could not well be stronger:
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet, calling up a serious look,


His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,
Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And further, 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,
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased, the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted, perfectly contented.

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What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wisely, and how well

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How roundly he pursued his course,

And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell.

He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.

But, while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

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And now, one night, in musing mood,
When all alone he sate,

Th' 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-thirty years, at least, And you are now fourscore."

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"So much the worse ! "" the clown rejoined : "To spare the aged would be kind: Besides, 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 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 would make amends.”
"Perhaps," says Dobson, "so it might;
But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking story, faith;


Yet there's some comfort, still," says Death:
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 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.


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The Burial of Sir John Moore. WOLFE.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;

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Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

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,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy, suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory:
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone;

But we left him alone with his glory.


Extract from a Speech on the British Treaty.


Ir 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."

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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

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