When first thy Sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design'd, And bade to form her infant mind. 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 Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 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. Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen) With thundering voice, and threatening mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty ;— Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear, Thy milder influence impart, Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound my heart. The generous spark extinct revive, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself a Man. T. Gray CCII THE SOLITUDE OF I am monarch of all I survey; I am out of humanity's reach, Society, Friendship, and Love Ye winds that have made me your sport, Some cordial endearing report My friends, do they now and then send O tell me I yet have a friend, How fleet is a glance of the mind! But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, And reconciles man to his lot. W. Cowper CCIII TO MARY UNWIN Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, 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- CCIV TO THE SAME The twentieth year is well-nigh past Thy spirits have a fainter flow, Thy needles, once a shining store, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil But well thou play'st the housewife's part, Thy indistinct expressions seem Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st And still to love, though prest with ill, But ah! by constant heed I know And should my future lot be cast W. Cowper CCV THE CASTAWAY Obscurest night involved the sky, No braver chief could Albion boast He loved them both, but both in vain, ด |