Reflected in the lake, I see
The downward mountains and the skies, The flying bird, the waving tree,
The goats that on the hill arise.
The grey-cloaked herd drives on the cow;
The slow-paced fowler walks the heath;
A freckled pointer scours the brow;
A musing shepherd stands beneath.
Curved o'er the ruin of an oak,
The woodman lifts his axe on high;
The hills re-echo to the stroke;
I see I see the shivers fly!
Some rural maid, with apron full,
Brings fuel to the homely flame:
I see the smoky columns roll,
And, through the chinky hut, the beam. Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss,
Two well-met hunters talk at ease; Three panting dogs beside repose; One bleeding deer is stretched on grass. A lake at distance spreads to sight, Skirted with shady forests round; In midst, an island's rocky height Sustains a ruin, once renowned. One tree bends o'er the naked walls; Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh; By intervals a fragment falls,
As blows the blast along the sky. The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide With labouring oars along the flood; An angler, bending o'er the tide,
Hangs from the boat the insidious wood. Beside the flood, beneath the rocks, On grassy bank, two lovers lean ; Bend on each other amorous looks, And seem to laugh and kiss between. The wind is rustling in the oak;
They seem to hear the tread of feet;
They start, they rise, look round the rock;
Again they smile, again they meet.
But see! the grey mist from the lake
Ascends upon the shady hills;
Dark storms the murmuring forests shake,
Rain beats around a hundred rills.
CCXXXII. MRS J. HUNTER, 1740-1822.
THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.
When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be revealed.
"Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one would wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.
Yet such the lot by thousands cast
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.
But nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come,
And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderer home.
CCXXXIII. MRS HESTER PIOZZI, 1740—1822.
THE THREE WARNINGS.
The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.
When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
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-day, 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-
‘Neighbour,' he said, 'farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And farther, 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.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :
He chaffered, then he bought and 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 increas
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.
And now, one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,
Th' 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, 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.'
'So much the worse,' the clown rejoin'd; the aged would be kind:
However, see your search be legal!
And your authority, is't regal ?
Else you come on a fool's errand,
With but a Secretary's warrant.
Besides you promised me three warnings,
Which I have look'd for nights and mornings: But for that loss of time and ease,
I can recover damages.'
'I know,' cries Death, 'that, at the best,
I seldom am a welcome guest :
But be not 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 rejoin'd, These are unjustifiable 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 touch'd him with his dart ;-
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate. So ends my tale.
CCXXXIV. ANONYMOUS, (1765).
AMERICAN TAXATION.
It is a wealthy people
Who sojourn in that land;
Their churches all with steeples
Most delicately stand;
Their houses, like the gilly,
Are painted white and gay ;
They flourish like the lily
In North Americay.
Their land with milk and honey
Continually doth flow;
The want of food or money
They very seldom know.
They heap up golden treasure;
They have no debts to pay;
They spend their time in pleasure
In North Americay.
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