Ere wife and cough Carried me off,-- Instead of heathenish Latin and Greek, I early taught him my maxims true,-- Do unto all as you'd have others do To yourself, good Jonathan? Certainly not! But learning never will boil the pot;-- A penny sav'd is a penny got;-- A groat per year is per day a pin;-- Let those (the lucky ones! ) laugh that win;-- Keep your shop, and your shop will keep you! Grasps his clutch little or much? Has his good round sum rolled into a plum? A voice spake in thunder--“His time is not come!” III. There is an eye that compasses all, Good and ill in this earthly ball; That pierces the dunnest, loneliest cell, Where wickedness hides, and marks it well! Years have wheeled their circles round, And the ancient sexton re-opens the ground; A weary man at the end of his span,-- Again the bell tolls a funeral sound, And the nodding plumes pass down the hill,-- 'Tis the time of the year when the buds appear, And the blackbird pipes his music shrill; On the breeze there is balm, and a holy calm, Whispers the troubled heart, “Be still! ” Ah! how chang'd since we saw him last, That mourner of twenty long winters past! He halts and bends as he slowly wends-- Bereft! bereft! what hath he done? That death should smite his only son! Fix'd to the sod, Bitter tears his cheeks bedew; His broken heart is buried too! With gentle hand, and accents bland, The man of God Leads him forth--'tis silence deep,-- And fathers, mothers, children weep. IV. For what man gives the world, he learns Too late, how little it returns! Nor counts he, till the funeral pall Has made a shipwreck of his all, His pleasures, pains; his losses, gains; And finds that, bankrupt! naught remains. In the watches of the night E'en our very thoughts affright-- And see! before the mourner's sight A dark and shadowy form appears; Hark! a voice salutes his ears, “Hush thy sorrow, dry thy tears! Father! 'twas to save thy son From av'rice, cunning, passion, pride, That he hath left the path untried, The crooked path that worldlings run,