Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died:
And O! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health!
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,

Were in the power of verse like mine to give,

I would not recompense his art with less,

Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.

Friend of my friend !* I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

SONNET,

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.

On his picture of me in Crayons, drawn at Eartham, in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September, 1792.

[October, 1792.]

ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace

On chart or canvass, not the form alone
And semblance, but, however faintly shown,

The mind's impression too on every face-
With strokes that time ought never to erase,

Thou hast so pencil'd mine that, though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace.

* Hayley.

But this I mark-that symptoms none of woe
In thy incomparable work appear.
Well-I am satisfied it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

TO MRS. UNWIN.

[May, 1793.]

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new

And undebased by praise of meaner things,

That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright; There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,

And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

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!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow―

My Mary!

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

Thy needles, once a shining store,

my sake restless heretofore,

My Mary!

For

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.