TO MARY. MARY! ten chequer'd years have past The bloom was then upon thy face, We conversed, were there others by, Our talk was then of years to come, At our last meeting sure thy heart you; Long, Mary! after that adieu, When manhood and its cares came on, Meantime through many a varied year And thou hast never heard my name But then I trust detraction's lie ... 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 seifish aim, Than such as Heaven hath granted me. London, 1802. TO A FRIEND, INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN. Do I 1. regret the past ? Would I again live o'er Nay, William! nay, not so! The changeful April day. The uncertain ocean's wrath. Praise be to Him who made me what I am, 2. Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk Of days that are no more? And tells how often in his wanderings The thought of those far off With no unmanly tears; Delighted he recalls Through what fair scenes his lingering feet have trod; But ever when he tells of perils past And troubles now no more, His eyes are brightest, and a readier joy 3. No, William ! no, I would not live again I would not be again The wisdom by Experience hardly taught. 4. To me the past presents All cause for full content. The future?... it is now the cheerful noon, When the dark night descends, I willingly shall close my weary lids, Westbury, 1798. THE DEAD FRIEND. 1. NOT to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, The form that once was dear! Which throbb'd in that cold heart, Resolved, their uses done. Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Follow thy friend beloved, The Spirit is not there! 2. Often together have we talk'd of death; All doubtful things made clear; To view the depth of Heaven! |