I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date: But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case. No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone, When, snatched from all effectual aid, We perished, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES EVENING Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend, Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, The lonely battlement, the farthest hill And wood, I think of those who have no friend; Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led, From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, Retiring, wander to the ringdove's haunts Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy's eye Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind Might rest beyond the murmurs of mankind, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery! Alas for man! that Hope's fair views the while Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! DOVER CLIFFS On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet Hear not the surge that has for ages beat, How many a lonely wanderer has stood! And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, And o'er the distant billows the still eve Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part! Oh! if, like me, he knew how fruitless all 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 tide-- The 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 Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown! A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. THE HOLY FAIR Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walkèd forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air. The rising sun, owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin; The hares were hirplin down the furs, The lav'rocks they were chantin Fu' sweet that day.