Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
  That now at every step thou movest
  Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,
  My Mary!

  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,
  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,
  Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
  My Mary!

  THE CASTAWAY

  Obscurest night involved the sky,
  The Atlantic billows roared,
  When such a destined wretch as I,
  Washed headlong from on board,
  Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
  His floating home forever left.

  No-braver chief could Albion boast
  Than he with whom he went,
  Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast
  With warmer wishes sent. 
  He loved them both, but both in vain,
  Nor him beheld, nor her again,

  Not long beneath the whelming brine,
  Expert to swim, he lay;
  Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
  Or courage die away;
  But waged with death a lasting strife,
  Supported by despair of life.

  He shouted:  nor his friends had failed
  To check the vessel’s course,
  But so the furious blast prevailed,
  That, pitiless perforce,
  They left their outcast mate behind,
  And scudded still before the wind.

  Some succour yet they could afford;
  And such as storms allow,
  The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
  Delayed not to bestow. 
  But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
  Whate’er they gave, should visit more.

  Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
  Their haste himself condemn,
  Aware that flight, in such a sea,
  Alone could rescue them;
  Yet bitter felt it still to die
  Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

  He long survives, who lives an hour
  In ocean, self-upheld;
  And so long he, with unspent power,
  His destiny repelled;
  And ever, as the minutes flew,
  Entreated help, or cried ‘Adieu!’

  At length, his transient respite past,
  His comrades, who before
  Had heard his voice in every blast,
  Could catch the sound no more: 
  For then, by toil subdued, he drank
  The stifling wave, and then he sank.

  No poet wept him; but the page
  Of narrative sincere,
  That tells his name, his worth, his age,
  Is wet with Anson’s tear: 
  And tears by bards or heroes shed
  Alike immortalize the dead.

  I therefore purpose not, or dream,
  Descanting on his fate,
  To give the melancholy theme
  A more enduring date: 
  But misery still delights to trace
  Its semblance in another’s case.

  No voice divine the storm allayed,
  No light propitious shone,
  When, snatched from all effectual aid,
  We perished, each alone: 
  But I beneath a rougher sea,
  And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.