The seaman with sincere delight For seamen much believe in signs, Hail, honour'd land! a desert where Whom nothing could divide. And ye who, rather than resign Were not afraid to plough the brine For whose lean country much disdain Be it your fortune, year by year, And may ye, sometimes landing here, June, 1793. TO MARY. THE twentieth year is well nigh past Ah! would that this might be the last! 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, And should my future lot be cast Autumn of 1793. THE CASTAWAY. OBSCUREST night involved the sky, No braver chief could Albion boast He loved them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away: But waged with death a lasting strife, He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd 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, But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Yet bitter felt it still to die He long survives, who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent power, And ever, as the minutes flew, At length, his transient respite past, Could catch the sound no more: No poet wept him; but the page That tells his name, his worth, his age, |