She turned her head, and bade the child
That screamed behind be still;

Then told us that her husband served,

A soldier, far away ;

And therefore to her parish she

Was begging back her way.

We met a girl,

her dress was loose,

And sunken was her eye,

Who with a wanton's hollow voice

Addressed the passers-by.

I asked her what there was in guilt
That could her heart allure
To shame, disease, and late remorse :
She answered she was poor.

I turned me to the Rich Man then,
For silently stood he:

"You asked me why the Poor complain, And these have answered thee."

LONDON, 1798.

TO MARY.

MARY! ten checkered years have passed Since we beheld each other last;

Yet, Mary, I remember thee,

Nor canst thou have forgotten me.

The bloom was then upon thy face,
Thy form had every youthful grace;
I, too, had then the warmth of youth,
And in our hearts was all its truth.

We conversed, were there others by,
With common mirth and random eye;
But, when escaped the sight of men,
How serious was our converse then!

Our talk was then of

years to come,

Of hopes which asked a humble doom,

Themes which to loving thoughts might move, Although we never spake of love.

At our last meeting, sure thy heart
Was even as loath as mine to part;
And yet we little thought that then
We parted not to meet again.

Long, Mary, after that adieu,

My dearest day-dreams were of you:
In sleep I saw you still, and long
Made you the theme of secret song.

When manhood and its cares came on,
The humble hopes of youth were gone;
And other hopes and other fears
Effaced the thoughts of happier years.

Meantime through many a varied year
Of thee no tidings did I hear,

And thou hast never heard my name
Save from the vague reports of fame.

But then, I trust, detraction's lie
Hath kindled anger in thine eye;
And thou my praise wert proud to see,
My name should still be dear to thee.

Ten years have held their course; thus late I learn the tidings of thy fate;

A husband and a father now,

Of thee, a wife and mother thou.

And, Mary, as for thee I frame

A prayer which hath no selfish aim,
No happier lot can I wish thee

Than such as Heaven hath granted me.

LONDON, 1802

TO A FRIEND,

INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN.

1.

Do I regret the past?
Would I again live o'er
The morning hours of life?
Nay, William! nay, not so!

In the warm joyance of the summer sun,
I do not wish again

The changeful April day.

Nay, William! nay, not so!
Safe havened from the sea,
I would not tempt again

The uncertain ocean's wrath.

Praise be to Him who made me what I am,
Other I would not be.

2.

Why is it pleasant, then, to sit and talk
Of days that are no more?

When in his own dear home
The traveller rests at last,

And tells how often, in his wanderings,
The thought of those far off

Hath made his eyes o'erflow
With no unmanly tears;

Delighted he recalls

[trod;

Through what fair scenes his lingering feet have

But, ever when he tells of perils past

And troubles now no more,

His eyes are brightest, and a readier joy
Flows thankful from his heart.

3.

No, William! no, I would not live again
The morning hours of life;

I would not be again

The slave of hope and fear;

I would not learn again

The wisdom by Experience hardly taught.

4.

To me the past presents
No object for regret;
To me the present gives

All cause for full content.

The future?

it is now the cheerful noon,

And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze
With eyes alive to joy:

When the dark night descends,

I willingly shall close my weary lids,
In sure and certain hope to wake again,
WESTBURY, 1798.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

1.

NOT to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear:

The Spirit is not there

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbbed in that cold heart,

Which in that motionless hand

Hath met thy friendly grasp;

The Spirit is not there!