The Task, and Other Poems Part 13

"A friend!" Horatio cried, and seemed to start; "Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my heart-- And fetch my cloak, for though the night be raw I'll see him too--the first I ever saw."

I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child; But somewhat at that moment pinched him close, Else he was seldom bitter or morose.

Perhaps, his confidence just then betrayed, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth.

Howe'er it was, his language in my mind Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind.

But not to moralise too much, and strain To prove an evil of which all complain (I hate long arguments, verbosely spun), One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.

Once on a time, an emperor, a wise man.

No matter where, in China or j.a.pan, Decreed that whosoever should offend Against the well-known duties of a friend, Convicted once, should ever after wear But half a coat, and show his bosom bare; The punishment importing this, no doubt, That all was naught within and all found out.

Oh happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; Else could a law, like that which I relate, Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few that I have known in days of old Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold.

While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close b.u.t.toned to the chin, Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.

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 s.h.i.+ning store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and s.h.i.+ne 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 prest, press gently mine, My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, That now at every step thou mov'st Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st, My Mary!

And still to love, though prest 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!