Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently pressed, press gently mine, 35 My Mary! 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! 40 And still to love, though pressed with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know 45 How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, 50 Thy worn-out heart will break at last-- My Mary! _William Cowper._ CLXII _TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON._ If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires! 5 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul’s best part for ever to the grave! 10 How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; 15 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid; And the last words that dust to dust conveyed! While speechless o’er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 20 Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 25 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. If e’er from me thy loved memorial part, May shame afflict this alienated heart; Of thee forgetful if I form a song, My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, 30 My grief be doubled, from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, Along the walls where speaking marbles show 35 What worthies form the hallowed mould below; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood;