WILLIAM COWPER

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 press'd, 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 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 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 !

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