Not long beneath the whelming brine Nor soon he felt his strength decline, But waged with death a lasting strife, He shouted: nor his friends had failed They left their outcast mate behind, Some succour yet they could afford; The cask, the coop, the floated cord, But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die He long survives, who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent power, And ever as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu !" At length, his transient respite past, That tells his name, his worth, his age And tears by bards or heroes shed I therefore purpose not, or dream, To give the melancholy theme But misery still delights to trace No voice divine the storm allayed, We perished each alone; But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. TO MRS. UNWIN. The twentieth year is well nigh past, 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, Now rust disused, and shine no more; My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 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 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 see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; 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, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transform thy smiles to looks of wo. My Mary' And should my future lot be cast, TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON. That ocean you have late surveyed, You, from the flood-controlling steep, To me, the waves that ceaseless broke Your sea of troubles you have passed, |