Ah send me not back to the race of mankind,
Perversely by folly beguil'd,

For where in the crowds I have left, shall I find
The spirit and heart of a child.

Here let me, though fix'd in a desert, be free; A little one whom they despise,

Though lost to the world, if in union with thee, Shall be holy, and happy, and wise.

TO MARY.

AUTUMN OF 1793.

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 flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow

'Twas my distress, that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

Now rust disus'd, 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 playd'st the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

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,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary!

My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wint'ry age to feel no chill,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary'

THE END.