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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 corid,

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 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 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 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 allayed,

No light propitious shone,
When, snatched from all effectual aid,

We perished each alone; But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.


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!

The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Nary!
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 uttered 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 sec ? The sun would rise in vain for me,

- My Mary'

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, 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 prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

But ah! by constant heed I know, • How oft thi sadness that I show,

My Mary'

And should my future lot be cast, With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last,


Those rocks, I too have seen ; But I, afflicted and dismayed,

You, tranquil and serene.

You, from the flood-controlling steep, .

Saw stretched before your view,

No longer such to you.

To me, the waves that ceaseless broke

Upon the dangerous coast, Hoarsely and ominously spoke,

Of all my treasure lost.

Your sea of troubles you have passed,

And found the peaceful shore; I, tempest-tossed and wrecked at last,

Come home to pori no more.

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