Dark and darker glooms the sky; Sleep gins close the labourer's eye: Dobson leaves his greensward seat, Neighbours where they neighbours meet Crops to praise, and work in hand, And battles tell from foreign land. While his pipe is puffing out, Sue he's putting to the rout, Gossiping, who takes delight To shool her knitting out at night, And back-bite neighbours bout the town-- Who's got new caps, and who a gown, And many a thing, her evil eye Can see they don't come honest by. Chattering at a neighbour's house, She hears call out her frowning spouse; Prepared to start, she soodles home, Her knitting twisting oer her thumb, As, both to leave, afraid to stay, She bawls her story all the way; The tale so fraught with 'ticing charms, Her apron folded oer her arms. She leaves the unfinished tale, in pain, To end as evening comes again: And in the cottage gangs with dread, To meet old Dobson's timely frown, Who grumbling sits, prepared for bed, While she stands chelping bout the town. The night-wind now, with sooty wings, In the cotter's chimney sings; Now, as stretching oer the bed, Soft I raise my drowsy head, Listening to the ushering charms, That shake the elm tree's mossy arms: Till sweet slumbers stronger creep, Deeper darkness stealing round, Then, as rocked, I sink to sleep, Mid the wild wind's lulling sound. _What is Life?_ And what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still repeated dream; Its length?--A minute's pause, a moment's thought; And happiness?-A bubble on the stream, That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. What are vain Hopes?--The puffing gale of morn, That of its charms divests the dewy lawn, And robs each floweret of its gem,--and dies; A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn, Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise. And thou, O Trouble?--Nothing can suppose, (And sure the power of wisdom only knows,) What need requireth thee: So free and liberal as thy bounty flows, Some necessary cause must surely be; But disappointments, pains, and every woe Devoted wretches feel, The universal plagues of life below, Are mysteries still neath Fate's unbroken seal. And what is Death? is still the cause unfound? That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound? A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave. And Peace? where can its happiness abound?-- No where at all, save heaven, and the grave. Then what is Life?--When stripped of its disguise, A thing to be desired it cannot be; Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. Tis but a trial all must undergo; To teach unthankful mortals how to prize That happiness vain man's denied to know, Until he's called to claim it in the skies. _The Maid Of Ocram or, Lord Gregory_