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
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah! would that this might be the last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flo
I see thee daily weaker gro
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
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,
My Mary!