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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.

319

TO THE SAME

The twentieth year is well-nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah would that this might be the last !

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 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 prov'st
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,

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 wo

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!

320

BOADICEA: An ODE
WHEN the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief.

• Princess ! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

'Rome shall perish—write that word

In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

6

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize

Harmony the path to fame.

"Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

*Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they.'

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending, as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow;
Rushed to battle, fought, and died;

Dying, hurled them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.'

321

THE CASTAWAY

OBSCUREST night involved the sky,

The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,

Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast

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

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

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,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had failed

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

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,

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

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he

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

Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour

In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent power,

His destiny repelled;
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 every blast,

Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stilling 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.

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