Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun; Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! 5 While pensive Memory traces back the round Which fills the varied interval between, Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure No more return, to cheer my evening road; 10 Yet still one joy remains--that not obscure, Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed, From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature, Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestowed. _Thomas Warton._ CLX _TO MARY UNWIN._ Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 5 I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings:-- But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 10 On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright-- There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine. _William Cowper._ CLXI _TO THE SAME._ 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, 5 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, 10 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, 15 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! 20 Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 25 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? 30 The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary!