For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil But well thou playedst the housewife's part, Thy indistinct expressions seem My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, For, could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, My Mary! And still to love, though pressed 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, And should my future lot be cast THE CASTAWAY Obscurest night involved the sky, No braver chief could Albion boast Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, Nor soon he felt his strength decline, But waged with death a lasting strife, He shouted: nor his friends had failed But so the furious blast prevailed, They left their outcast mate behind, Some succour yet they could afford; The cask, the coop, the floated cord, But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld; And so long he, with unspent power, And ever, as the minutes flew, At length, his transient respite past, No poet wept him; but the page That tells his name, his worth, his age, And tears by bards or heroes shed I therefore purpose not, or dream, To give the melancholy theme But misery still delights to trace No voice divine the storm allayed, When, snatched from all effectual aid, But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES EVENING Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend, From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind. Alas for man! that Hope's fair views the while DOVER CLIFFS On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tideThe world his country, and his God his guide. ROBERT BURNS MARY MORISON O Mary, at thy window be; It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor! How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing; I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', 'Ye are na Mary Morison.' O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace THE HOLY FAIR Upon a simmer Sunday morn, |