So Homer, in the mem'ry stored Of many a Grecian belle, Was once preserv'd-a richer hoard, But never lodg'd so well. ΤΟ THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA, ON His translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse. [1793.] My rose, Gravina, blooms anew, And, steep'd not now in rain, But in Castalian streams by You, Will never fade again. ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. [SEPT. 1793.] THE suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all. ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL FROM MR. HAYLEY. [ост. 1793.] I SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vain To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain, But from that error now behold me free, Since I receiv'd him as a gift from Thee. ΤΟ MARY. [AUTUMN OF 1793.] THE twentieth year is well nigh past, 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 play'dst 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; My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov❜st, That now at every step thou mov'st 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! Y |