But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo,

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 !

THE CAST-AWAY.

OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home forever 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 lov'd 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 wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd

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

That, pitiless perforce,

They left their out-cast 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
Delay'd not to bestow.

But he (they new) nor ship, nor shore,.
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he,
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, 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 repell'd:

And ever, as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried-"Adieu!"

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before

244

ON ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ.

Had heard his voice in every blast,

Could catch the sound no more.
For then by toil subdu'd, he drank
The stifling 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.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When snatch'd from all effectual aid,

We perish'd each alone;

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And 'whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

LINES

Composed for a memorial of ASHLEY COWPER, Esq. immediately after his death, by his Nephew WILLIAM of WESTON.

FAREWELL! endued with all that could engage All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age!

In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old;
In life's last stage (Oh blessing rarely found!)
Pleasant as youth, with all its blossoms crown'd;
Through every period of this changeful state,
Unchang'd thyself! wise, good, affectionate !

Marble may flatter, and, lest this should seem
O'ercharg'd with praises on so dear a theme,
Although thy worth be more than half supprest,
Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest.

AN ENGLISH VERSIFICATION OF A THOUGHT THAT POPPED INTO MY HEAD ABOUT TWO MONTHS SINCE.

SWEET stream! that winds thro' yonder glade

Apt embelm of a virtuous maid,

Silent and chaste, she steals along,

Far from the world's gay, busy throng;

With gentle, yet prevailing force,

Intent upon her destin'd course :
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing, and blest, where'er she goes:
Pure-bosom'd, as that watery glass,

And heaven reflected in her face.

ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE

SUNS that set, and Moons that wane,

Rise and are restor❜d again.

246

EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.

Stars, that orient day subdues,

Night at her return renews.

Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth.

Of the genial womb of earth,
Suffer but a transient death

From the winter's cruel breath.
Zephyr speaks; serener skies
Warm the glebe; and they arise.
We, alas! Earth's haughty kings,
We, that promise mighty things,
Losing soon life's happy prime,
Droop and fade in little time.
Spring returns, but not our bloom,,
Still 'tis winter in the tomb..

EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.

HERE Johnson lies-a sage by all allow'd,
Whom to have bred may well make England proud;
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose verse may claim-grave, masculine, and strong
Superior praise to the mere poet's song;
Who many a noble gift from heaven possess❜d,.
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
'man immortal by a double prize!

By fame on earth-by glory in the skies!!

TO A YOUNG LADY, ON HER
BIRTH-DAY.

HOW many between east and west:

Disgrace their parent earth.