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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 pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,
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,
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!

THE CASTAWAY

Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,

Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home forever left.

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,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;

But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevailed,

That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;
And such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow.

But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;

And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried ‘Adieu!'

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,

Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear:

And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

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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 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

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 walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air.

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