But this I mark-that symptoms none of woe Well-I am satisfied it should be so, Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee? TO MRS. UNWIN. [May, 1793.] MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, record thy worth with honour due, I may In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright; There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. TO MARY. [Autumn of 1793.] THE twentieth year is well nigh past, Ah, would that this might be the last! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, My Mary! I see thee daily weaker grow- Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream! Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, My Mary! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, My Mary! And still to love, though press'd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, VOL. II. 20 My Mary! ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. TO THE MARCH IN SCIPIO. WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. [September, 1782.] TOLL for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full-charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. |