fell,
How long he lived, how wisely, and how well,
It boots not that the Muse should tell;
He plowed, he sowed, 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.

And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,
The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.
Half-killed with wonder and surprise,
"So soon returned!" old Dodson cries.
"So soon d' ye call it?" Death replies:
"Surely! my friend, you're but in jest;
Since I was here before,
'T is 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 do n't be captious, friend; at least,
I little thought that you'd be able
To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length,
Yet still you seem to have 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 surely, sir, to see one's friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."
"Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might,
But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking story, faith;
But 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've grown so deaf, I could not hear."

"Nay, then," the specter stern rejoined,
"These are unpardonable 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 Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate--so ends my tale.

XXIII. THE MEMORY OF OUR FATHERS. (128)

Lyman Beecher, 1775-1863, a famous congregational minister of New England,
was born in New Haven, graduated from Yale College in 1797, and studied
theology with Dr. Timothy Dwight. His first settlement was at E