Here, sweetly forgetting and wholly forgot

By the world and its turbulent throng,
The birds and the streams lend me many a note
That aids meditation and song.

Hear, wand'ring in scenes that are sacred to night,
Love wears me and wastes me away,

And often the sun has spent much of his light,
Ere yet I perceive it is day.

While a mantle of darkness envelops the sphere,
My sorrows are sadly rehears'd,

To me the dark hours are all equally dear,
And the last is as sweet as the first.

Here I and the beasts of the deserts agree,
Mankind are the wolves that I fear,
They grudge me my natural right to be free,
But nobody questions it here.

Though little is found in this dreary abode
That appetite wishes to find,

My spirit is sooth'd by the presence of God,
And appetite wholly resign'd.

Ye desolate scenes, to your solitude led,
My life I in praises employ,

And scarce know the source of the tears that I shed,
Proceed they from sorrow or joy.

There's nothing I seem to have skill to discern,
I feel out my way in the dark,
Love reigns in my bosom, I constantly burn,
Yet hardly distinguish the spark.

I live, yet I seem to myself to be dead,
Such a riddle is not to be found,

I am nourish'd without knowing how I am fed,
I have nothing, and yet I abound.

Oh Love! who in darkness art pleased to abide,
Though dimly, yet surely I see,

That these contrarieties only reside
In the soul that is chosen of thee.

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,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary

But ah! by constant heed I know,

How oft this sadness that I shew,

Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast

With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

THE END.

PRINTED BY BAYLIS AND LEIGHTON, JOHNSON'S COURT,

FLEET-STREET.