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The seaman with sincere delight

His feather'd shipmates eyes, Scarce less exulting in the sight

Than when he tows a prize.

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For seamen much believe in signs,

And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,

his hopes be true!

Hail, honour'd land ! a desert where

Not even birds can hide, Yet parent of this loving pair

Whom nothing could divide.

And ye who, rather than resign

Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine

In company with man;

For whose lean country much disdain

We English often show, Yet from a richer nothing gain

But wantonness and woe

Be it your fortune, year by year,

The same resource to prove,
And may ye, sometimes landing here,

Instruct us how to love !
June, 1793.


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-

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 provest, That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,

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 woe,

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! Autumn of 1793.


OBSCUREST night involved the sky,

The Atlantic billows roar'd, When such a destined wretch as I,

Wash'd 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


away: But waged 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 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,

Delay'd not to bestow:
But he, they knew, 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
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

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