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Death called aside the jocund groom
And, looking grave, "You must," says he,
"With you! and quit my Susan's side!
What more he urged I have not heard;
Yet, calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,
And grant a kind reprieve,
Well pleased, the world will leave."
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor thought of Death as near;
He passed his hours in peace.
But, while he viewed his wealth increase,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
Th' unwelcome messenger of fate
'Tis six-and-thirty years, at least, And you are now fourscore."
"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
"Hold!" says the farmer, "not so fast:
Yet there's some comfort, still," says Death:
"There's none," cries he; " and if there were,
"These are unwarrantable yearnings. If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient warnings.
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 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:
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."
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