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And still to love, though prest 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 wo,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With which resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will brcak at last,

My Mary' THE CASTAWAY.

(March, 20, 1799.)

OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky;

Th’ Atlantic billows roar'd, When such a destined wretch as I,

Wash'd headlong from on board Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever teft.

No braver chief could Albion boas.,

Than he, with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,

With warmer wishes sent. He lov'd them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brino,

Export to swim, he lay : Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

Or courage die away; But wag'd with death a lasting srits, Supported by despair of lifa.

He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd

To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,

That, pitiless, perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford,

And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

Delay'd not to bestow But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he

Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea

Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
"e long survives, who lives an hour

In ocean, self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent pow's

His destiny repell’d:
And ever as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried—“Adieu !"

At length, his transient respite past,

His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,

Could catch the sound :10 more.

For then, by toil subdu'd, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page

Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age

Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme

A more enduring date.
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd

No light propitious shone ; When, snatch'd from all effectua' aid,

We perish'd each alone · But I bencath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulss than !so.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS,

OR,

TITHING TIME AT STOCK, W ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a country clergyman, com

plaining of the disagreeableness of the day an. nually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage.

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jes

To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,

The burden of my song.
The priest he merry is and blithe

Three quarters of the year,
But, oh! it cuts nim like a sithe,

When tithing time draws near.
Ple then is full of frights and fear

As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears,

He heaves up many a sigh.

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