« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
The seaman with sincere delight
His feather'd shipmates eyes, Scarce less exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.
For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new
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,
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,
Instruct us how to love !
The twentieth year is well nigh past
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,
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
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,
Delay'd not to bestow:
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Alone could rescue them;
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld :
His destiny repell’d :
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Could catch the sound no more:
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear