TO MRS. UNWIN.-Cowper. MARY! I want a lyre with other strings; drew! An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, 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,- 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 mine. TO THE SAME.-Cowper: THE twentieth year is well nigh past, My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow- 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store! For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disus'd, and shine no more, My Mary ! For though thou gladly would'st fulfil Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou playd'st the housewife's part; And all thy threads, with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart, Thy indistinct expressions seem My Mary! Like language utter'd in a dream; 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, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, My Mary! And still to love, though prest with ill, In wint❜ry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, And should my future lot be cast My Mary! With much resemblance of the past,. Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary! 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? My Mother. Who sweetly stilled my wailing cries? Who prayed my dawning thoughts might rise My Mother. In early youth, who soothed my woe? My Mother. Who taught my simple heart the way In feeble accents first to pray? Who watched my slumbers, cheered my day? My Mother. Who strove to teach my heart to glow With gratitude, and melt at woe? Each selfish feeling to forego? My Mother. Who lived in peace and died in faith, And blest me with her latest breath? Who grasped my hand and smiled in death? O! shade of her I loved so dear! Thy fond remembrance still I bear My Mother. In my sad heart. Thou livest there. My Mother. THE LEAF.-Bp. Horne. "We all do fade as a leaf." Isa. Ixiv.-6. SEE the leaves around us falling, Sons of Adam, once in Eden, Virgins, much, too much presuming Griping misers, nightly waking, See the end of all your care; |