Then I will strive to bound my wish, And take, instead of fowl and fish, Whate’er is thrown into my dish. Instead of wealth and fortune great, Garden and house and loving mate, I’ll rest content in servile state. I’ll from each folly strive to fly, Each virtue to attain I’ll try, And live as I would wish to die. THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER; OR, A SUDDEN CALL FROM AN EARTHLY GLORY TO THE COLD GRAVE. IN a Dialogue between Death and a Rich Man; who, in the midst of all his Wealth, received the tidings of his Last Day, to his unspeakable and sorrowful Lamentation. To the tune of _Aim not too high_, {24} &c. [THE following poem, and the two that immediately follow, belong to a class of publications which have always been peculiar favourites with the peasantry, in whose cottages they may be frequently seen, neatly framed and glazed, and suspended from the white-washed walls. They belong to the school of Quarles, and can be traced to the time when that writer was in the height of his popularity. These religious dialogues are numerous, but the majority of them are very namby-pamby productions, and unworthy of a reprint. The modern editions preserve the old form of the broadside of the seventeenth century, and are adorned with rude woodcuts, probably copies of ruder originals— —‘wooden cuts Strange, and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire, Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too, With long and ghostly shanks, forms which once seen, Can never be forgotten!’—WORDSWORTH’S _Excursion_.] DEATH. THOU wealthy man of large possessions here, Amounting to some thousand pounds a year, Extorted by oppression from the poor, The time is come that thou shalt be no more; Thy house therefore in order set with speed, And call to mind how you your life do lead. Let true repentance be thy chiefest care, And for another world now, _now_ prepare. For notwithstanding all your heaps of gold, Your lands and lofty buildings manifold, Take notice you must die this very day; And therefore kiss your bags and come away. RICH MAN. [He started straight and turned his head aside, Where seeing pale-faced Death, aloud he cried], Lean famished slave! why do you threaten so, Whence come you, pray, and whither must I go? DEATH. I come from ranging round the universe, Through courts and kingdoms far and near I pass, Where rich and poor, distressèd, bond and free, Fall soon or late a sacrifice to me. From crownèd kings to captives bound in chains My power reaches, sir; the longest reigns That ever were, I put a period to; And now I’m come in fine to conquer you. RICH MAN.