TO MARY. AUTUMN OF 1793. THE twentieth year is well nigh pass'd, Ah, would that this might be the last! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow My Mary! "Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art 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! Thy hands their little force resign; My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, My Mary! And still to love, though press'd with ill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But, ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show 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 DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH. YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red Where Rhenus strays his vines among, Or only with a whistle bless'd, The honours of his ebon poll Were brighter than the sleekest mole, With which Aurora decks the skies, Above, below, in all the house, 238 ON THE DEATH OF A BULFINCH. Well latticed-but the grate, alas! But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure: A beast forth sallied on the scout, He entering at the study door, And something in the wind Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, For, aided both by ear and scent, Minute the horrors that ensued; His teeth were strong, the cage was wood- THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. Might have repaid him well, I wote, Maria weeps the Muses mourn— 239 THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. To Mrs. Throckmorton. MARIA! I have every good For thee wish'd many a time, To wish thee fairer is no need, In wedded love already bless'd, |