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TO MRS. UNWIN.-Cowper.
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings;
drew! An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, And undebas'd by praise of meaner things ! That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 1
may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, Verse, that immortalizes whom it sings !
But thou hast little need : There is a book,
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee
TO THE SAME.-Cowper.
The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
sake restless heretofore, Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,
For though thou gladly would'st fulfil
But well thou playd'st the housewife's part;
Thy indistinct expressions seem
For could I view nor them nor thee,
Partakers of thy sad decline,
And still to love, though prest with ill,
future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
TO MY FATHER.
Oh! my dear Father, I can ne'er forget,
Thou gav'st me being, far more sweet than this,
IN MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MOTHER.
Who hushed my infant cares to rest ?
Who sweetly stilled my wailing cries?
Who taught my simple heart the way
Who strove to teach my heart to glow
Who lived in peace and died in faith,
THE LEAF.-Bp. Horne.
“ We all do fade as a leaf.” Isa, Ixiv.-6.
SEE the leaves around us falling;
Dry and withered, to the ground;
In a sad and solemn sound :
Sons of Adam, once in Eden,
Blighted when like us he fell,
'Tis, alas! the truth we tell. Virgins, much, too much presuming
On your boasted white and red; View us, late in beauty blooming,
Numbered now among the dead.
Griping misers, nightly waking,
See the end of all your care ; Fled on wings of our own making,
We have left our owners bare,