!" Death replied,
"Ten years ago thou should'st have died!
Thy friends, thy foes, thyself outliv'd:
Almost an age thou hast surviv'd:
Some who their day had scarce begun.
Others beneath their noon-tide sun--
Time's deepest lines engrave thy brow,
And dost thou hesitate to go?
Idiot, what warning would'st thou have?
One foot already in the grave:
Sight, hearing, feeling, day by day,
Sunk gradual in a long decay.
I blame myself for my neglect;
Thou'st not a moment to expect!"

When failing nature warns, the sage
Sees death a refuge from old age;
And rising from life's lengthened feast,
Willing retires, a sated guest.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE PAINTER.

When candid critics deign to blame
Their index points the road to fame,
But when dull fools your works admire,
Throw them at once into the fire.

In Rome there dwelt, in days of yore,
A painter deep in graphic lore.
His touch was firm, his outline true,
And every rule full well he knew.
A Mars he painted, meant to show
How far his learned skill could go.
The work complete, he call'd a friend,
On whose good taste he could depend.
The friend was honest, spoke his thought,
And fairly pointed out the fault,
"That overwork'd in every part,
It show'd too much laborious art."
The painter argued for his rules,
And cited maxims from the schools;
Still the judicious critic held
The labor should be more conceal'd.
While they disputed on his stricture,
A coxcomb came to see the picture:
Entering, he cries, "Good heavens, how fine!
The piece, I swear, is quite divine!
The sword, the knot, the belt, the leather,
The steel, the gold, the silk, the feather,
Are perfect nature, all together!"
The painter, reddening with despite,
Whispers, "My friend, by Jove, you're right.
'Tis not enough our art to know,
Till less of it we learn to show;
My picture must be done again
I see, to please discerning men."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE COBBLER AND THE NABOB.

A cobbler, who had fix'd his stall
Against a nabob's palace wall,
Work'd merrily as others play,
And sung and whistled all the day.
A prey to many an anxious care,
Less merry was the lord, by far;
And often in the night he thought
It hard, sleep was not to be bought:
And if tow'rds morn he got a doze,
The cobbler troubled his repose.
One day he bid the man attend--
And, "Well," says he, "my honest friend,
How is it that so well you thrive?
You seem the happiest man