TO MARY.

[Autumn of 1793.]

THE twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

Thy needles, once a shining store,

My Mary!

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 magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

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,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

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,

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,
And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

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.

272

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down

With twice four hundred men.

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.

STANZAS,

Subjoined to the YEARLY BILL of MORTALITY of the Parish of ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,* Anno Domini 1787.

"Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,

Regumque turres."

Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door
Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.

HORACE.

WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,

All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?

Did famine or did plague prevail,

That so much death appears?

No; these were vigorous as their sires;
Nor plague nor famine came:
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waives his claim.

Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall;

The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.

* Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of Northampton.