Be it your fortune, year by year, The same resource to prove, TO MARY. THE twentieth year is well nigh past, Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow— 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, 80 5 IO For though thou gladly wouldst fulfill 15 But well thou playedst the housewife's part, My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! 20 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, For, could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 25 30 35 In wintry age to feel no chill, And still to love, though pressed with ill, 40 My Mary! With me is to be lovely still, But ah! by constant heed I know, And should my future lot be cast 45 With much resemblance of the past, 50 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary! He loved them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away; But waged with Death a lasting strife, 15 He shouted; nor his friends had failed 20 But so the furious blast prevailed, That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind, Some succour yet they could afford; 25 But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he He long survives, who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent power, And ever, as the minutes flew, At length, his transient respite past, Could catch the sound no more: No poet wept him; but the page 30 35 40 45 Of narrative sincere, 50 That tells his name, his worth, his age, |