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.

THE CASTAWAY.

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 forever 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 die 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 succor 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;

And tears by bards or heroes shed

Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:

But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;

When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

We perish'd, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
March 20, 1799.

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS,

DEAR President, whose art sublime
Gives perpetuity to time,

And bids transactions of a day,
That fleeting hours would waft away

To dark futurity, survive,

And in unfading beauty live,—
You cannot with a grace decline
A special mandate of the Nine-
Yourself, whatever task you choose,
So much indebted to the Muse.

Thus say the sisterhood:-We come-
Fix well your pallet on your thumb,
Prepare the pencil and the tints—
We come to furnish you with hints.
French disappointment, British glory,
Must be the subject of the story.

First strike a curve, a graceful bow, Then slope it to a point below;

Your outline easy, airy, light,
Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite.
Let independence, sanguine, horrid,
Blaze like a meteor in the forehead:
Beneath (but lay aside your graces)
Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces,
Each with a staring, sted fast eye,
Fix'd on his great and good ally.
France flies the kite-'tis on the wing-
Britannia's lightning cuts the string.
The wind that raised it, ere it ceases,
Just rends it into thirteen pieces,
Takes charge of every fluttering sheet,
And lays them all at George's feet.
Iberia, trembling from afar,
Renounces the confederate war.

Her efforts and her arts o'ercome,
France calls her shatter'd navies home.
Repenting Holland learns to mourn
The sacred treaties she has torn ;
Astonishment and awe profound
Are stamp'd upon the nations round:
Without one friend, above all foes,
Britannia gives the world repose.

THE DISTRESSED TRAVELERS;

OR, LABOR IN VAIN.

A New Song, to a Tune never sung before.

I SING of a journey to Clifton,*

We would have perform'd, if we could; Without cart or barrow, to lift on

Poor Mary† and me through the mud.

* A village near Olney.

† Mrs. Unwin.

Slee, sla, slud,

Stuck in the mud;

Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!

So away we went, slipping and sliding;
Hop, hop, à la mode de deux frogs,
"Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dress'd in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,

Go briskly about,

But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout.

DIALOGUE.

SHE.

"Well! now, I protest it is charming;
How finely the weather improves !
That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming,
How slowly and stately it moves."

HE.

"Pshaw! never mind,

"Tis not in the wind,

[hind.

We are travelling south, and shall leave it be

SHE.

"I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded, and penn'd,

Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end."

HE.

"The longer we stay,

The longer we may;

It's a folly to think about weather or way."

SHE.

"But now I begin to be frighted,

If I fall what a way I should roll!