484 To Mary Unwin
MARY' I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feigned 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.
485 My Mary
^HE twentieth year is wellnigh past Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more;