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TO MRS. UNWIN.-Cowper.
MARY! I want a lyre with other strings;
Such aid from Heaven, as some have feign'd they
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,
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,
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 THE SAME.-Cowper.
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--
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary !
Thy needles, once a shining store!
sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,
For though thou gladly would'st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
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
Like language utter'd in a dream ;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright !
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now, at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,
And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wint'ry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
And should my 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,
Nor, e'er remembering, cease to feel, the debt
To thee I owe; nor e'er that debt repay,
To the late evening of my mortal day.
Thou gav'st me being, far more sweet than this,
Thou gav'st me that which makes my being bliss ;
Thou didst to holy thoughts my bosom warm,
Thou didst my tongue to holy accents form,
And taught'st, in dawning reason's infant days,
To lisp the voice of prayer, and thanks, and praise.
IN MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MOTHER.
WHO hushed my infant cares to rest?
Who lulled me on her tender breast,
And when I stirred more closely pressed?
Who sweetly stilled my wailing cries?
Who prayed my dawning thoughts might rise
Above earth's fleeting vanities ?
In early youth, who soothed my woe?
Who mourned when sickness laid me low,
But whispered, "Mercy deals the blow ?"
Who taught my simple heart the way
In feeble accents first to pray?
Who watched my slumbers, cheered my day?
Who strove to teach my heart to glow
With gratitude, and melt at woe?
Each selfish feeling to forego?
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
In my sad heart. Thou livest there.
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
Thus to thoughtless mortals calling,
In a sad and solemn sound:
Sons of Adam, once in Eden,
Blighted when like us he fell,
Hear the lecture we are reading,
'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.