POETRY. 923 
Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
My Mary! 
For tho’ thou gladly would’st fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
My Mary ! 
But well thou play’dst the housewile’s part, 
And all thy threads, with magic art, 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 
My Mary ! 
Thy indistinét 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, 
, a My Mary! 
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st, 
That now at ev’ry step thou mov’st, , 
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov’st, 
My Mary! 
And still to love, tho’ press’d 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 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! 
TH 
. EB 
