CLIX HYMN TO ADVERSITY Daughter, of Jove, relentless power, When first thy Sire to send on earth What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe. Scared at thy frown terrific, fly The summer Friend, the flattering Foe; By vain Prosperity received To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom in sable garb array'd Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend : Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. , gently on thy suppliant's head Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Not circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen) With thundering voice, and threatening mien, Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear, To soften, not to wound my heart. What others are to feel, and know myself a Man. T. Gray CLX THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK I am monarch of all I survey; I am out of humanity's reach, Society, Friendship, and Love My sorrows I then might assuage Ye winds that have made me your sport, How fleet is a glance of the mind! And the swift-wingéd arrows of light. But the seafowl is gone to her nest, W. Cowper CLXI TO MARY UNWIN 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 ; CLXII TO THE SAME The twentieth year is well nigh past Thy spirits have a fainter flow, Thy needles, once a shining store, For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil Thy sight now seconds not thy will But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, My Mary! M Thy indistinct expressions seem Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, For could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline Thy hands their little force resign; Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st And still to love, though press'd with ill, With me is to be lovely still, But ah! by constant heed I know And should my future lot be cast Thy worn-out heart will break at last- W. Cowper |