Stern rugged Nurse! thy rigid lore What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe. Scared at thy frown terrific, fly Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, Light they disperse, and with them go The summer Friend, the flattering Foe; By vain Prosperity received To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom in sable garb array'd Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend : Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. O, gently on thy suppliant's head Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Not circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen) With thundering voice, and threatening mien, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty: Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear, Thy milder influence impart, Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound my heart. What others are to feel, and know myself a Man. T. Gray CLX THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK I AM monarch of all I survey; My right there is none to dispute; I am out of humanity's reach, Society, Friendship, and Love O had I the wings of a dove My sorrows I then might assuage Religion! what treasure untold Ye winds that have made me your sport, How fleet is a glance of the mind! But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, Even here is a season of rest, And reconciles man to his lot. W. Cowper M CLXI TO MARY UNWIN ARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new That ere through age or woe I shed my wings .But thou hast little need. There is a Book A chronicle of actions just and bright There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; THE CLXII TO THE SAME HE twentieth year is well nigh past Ah would that this might be the last! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow 'T was my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, |