Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be Be wiser thou-like our forefather Donne, SONNET TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 1793. DEAR architect of fine Chateaux in air, O, for permission from the skies to share, But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth SONNET TO DR. AUSTIN. 1792. AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me, And boldly call thee, being his, my own. SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM, IN THE 61ST YEAR OF MY AGE, IN THE MONTHS OF AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER. 1792. ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but, however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every face With strokes that time ought never to erase, But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe Well I am satisfied it should be so, Since on maturer thought the cause is clear; For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee? SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN. 1793. 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 And undebased by praise of meaner things, That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 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, 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. TO MARY. AUTUMN OF 1793. THE twentieth year is well nigh pass'd, Thy spirits have a fainter flow, My Mary! I see thee daily weaker grow- My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; My Mary! 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, Partakers of thy sad decline, My Mary! Thy hands their little force resign; My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provést, My Mary! And still to love, though press'd with ill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But, ah! by constant heed I know, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast My Mary! |