52

SONNET TO G. ROMNEY, ESQ.

But this I mark-that symptoms none of woe
In thy incomparable work appear.

Well I am satisfied it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;

For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to Thee?

SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN.

1793.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they

drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.

But thou hast little need. There is a book

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

TO MARY.

AUTUMN OF 1793.

THE twentieth year is well nigh pass'd,
Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah, would that this might be the last!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

My Mary!

I see thee daily weaker grow-
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

My Mary!

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,

Thy indistinct expressions seem

My Mary!

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,

Partakers of thy sad decline,

My Mary!

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!

ON

THE DEATH

OF

MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,
O share Maria's grief!

Her favourite, even in his cage,

(What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung,
And though by nature mute,

Or only with a whistle bless'd,

Well taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flagelet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the sleekest mole,
His bosom of the hue

With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
To sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,

No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest shaven wood,
Large built and latticed well.

Well latticed--but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,
For Bully's plumage sake,

But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,
The swains their baskets make.

Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure :
When led by instinct sharp and sure,
Subsistence to provide,

A beast forth sallied on the scout,
Long-back'd, long-tail'd, with whisker'd snout,
And badger-colour'd hide,

He, entering at the study door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;

And something in the wind

Conjectured, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,

Food chiefly for the mind.