TO MARY. [Autumn of 1793.] THE twentieth year is well nigh past The same kind office for me still, My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, Have wound themselves about this heart Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; My Mary' 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, Partakers of thy sad decline. My Mary! My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, My Mary' And still to love, though prest with ill, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know My Mary! And should my future lot be cast My Mary! THE CASTAWAY. [March, 20, 1799.] OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky; No braver chief could Albion boast, He lov'd 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 wag'd with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life. He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd They left their outcast mate behind, Some succour yet they could afford, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Yet bitter felt it still to die He long survives, who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent pow'r At length, his transient respite past, |