Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast,
  The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,
  Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
  Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
  There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
  Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
  While airs impregnated with incense play
  Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,
  So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore
  ‘Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,’
  And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
  Of life long since has anchored by thy side.

  But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
  Always from port withheld, always distressed,
  Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
  Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
  And day by day some current’s thwarting force
  Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
  Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he,
  That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
  My boast is not that I deduce my birth
  From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;
  But higher far my proud pretensions rise—­
  The son of parents passed into the skies!

  And now, farewell.  Time unrevoked has run
  His wonted course, yet what I wished is done: 
  By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain,
  I seem t’ have lived my childhood o’er again,
  To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
  Without the sin of violating thine;
  And while the wings of Fancy still are free,
  And I can view this mimic show of thee,
  Time has but half succeeded in his theft—­
  Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

  TO MARY

  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 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,
  My Mary!

  But well thou playedst 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 uttered 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 pressed, press gently mine,
  My Mary!