| |
| THE TREE of deepest root is found | |
| Least willing still to quit the ground; | |
| ’T was therefore said by ancient sages, | |
| That love of life increased with years | |
| So much, that in our latter stages, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| Be pleased to hear a modern tale. | |
| |
| When sports went round, and all were gay, | |
| On neighbor Dodson’s wedding-day, | |
| Death called aside the jocund groom | |
| With him into another room, | 15 |
| 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, ’t is monstrous hard! | 20 |
| 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; | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| 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. | 55 |
| 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, | 60 |
| 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. | 65 |
| |
| Half killed with anger 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 | 70 |
| ’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: | |
| However, see your search be legal; | 75 |
| And your authority,—is ’t regal? | |
| Else you are come on a fool’s errand, | |
| With but a secretary’s warrant. | |
| Beside, you promised me three warnings, | |
| Which I have looked for nights and mornings; | 80 |
| 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 don’t be captious, friend, at least: | 85 |
| 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! | 90 |
| 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.” | 95 |
| “Perhaps,” says Dodson, “so it might, | |
| But latterly I ’ve lost my sight.” | |
| “This is a shocking tale, ’t is true; | |
| But still there ’s comfort left for you: | |
| Each strives your sadness to amuse; | 100 |
| 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 unjustifiable yearnings: | 105 |
| 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, | 110 |
| Yields to his fate,—so ends my tale. | |
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