But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal, And had a hollow with a wheel Through which the tackle pass'd. Within that cavity aloft Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd. Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor The mother-bird is gone to sea, But No-soon as from ashore he saw The winged mansion move, He flew to reach it, by a law Then perching at his consort's side, The billows and the blast defied, And cheer'd her with a song. The seaman with sincere delight For seamen much believe in signs, Hail, honour'd land! a desert where And ye who, rather than resign Were not afraid to plough the brine 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. TO MARY. THE twentieth year is well nigh past Ah! would that this might be the last! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow My Mary! 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, 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, Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream: My Mary! Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, My Mary! For, could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, My Mary! Thy hands their little force resign; My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 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, And should my future lot be cast Autumn of 1793. THE CASTAWAY. OBSCUREST night involved the sky, No braver chief could Albion boast He loved them both, but both in vain, 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, He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind. |