WILLIAM COWPER

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.

47 /. My Mary

��T^HE twentieth year is wellnigh 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 play'dst 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 utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whatever the theme,

My Mary!

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