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Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
Could Time, his flight reversed restore the hours,
smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
shore • Where tempests never beat nor billows roar*,' And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'dMe howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Sails ripp’d, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet O the thought that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; But higher far my proud pretensions riseThe son of parents pass’d into the skies. And now farewell-Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
AUTUMN OF 1793.
My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with màgic art Have wound themselves about this heart,
Thy indistinct expressions seem
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, That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,
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, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn out heart will break at last,
TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY.
MEMORY, be still! why throng upon the thought These scenes deep-stain'd with Sorrow's sable
dye? Hast thou in store no joy-illumined draught,
To cheer bewilder'd Fancy's tearful eye? Yes—from afar a landscape seems to rise,
Deck'd gorgeous by the lavish hand of Spring; Thin gilded clouds float light along the skies,
And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing. How bless'd the youth in yonder valley laid !
Soft smiles in every conscious feature play, While to the gale low-murmuring through the
glade He tempers sweet his sprightly warbling lay. Hail, Innocence! whose bosom, all serene,
Feels not fierce Passion's raving tempest roll! Oh, ne'er may Care distract that placid mien! Oh, ne'er may Doubt's dark shades o’erwhelm
thy soul. Vain wish! for lo, in gay attire conceal’d,
Yonder she comes! the heart-inflaming fiend! (Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield ?)
Swift to her destined prey see Passion bend ! Oh smile accursed, to hide the worst designs !
Now with blithe eye she woos him to be bless'd, While round her arm unseen a serpent twines
And lo, she hurls it hissing at his breast!