(A Paraphrase.)

I.

Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray Will e'er bedim thy natal morn, Or usher in the unhallowed day When we forget that thou wert born! O Burns! Thou dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou again a Highland maid, Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?

II.

That sacred day can we forget, Can we forget the hallowed spot Where by the winding Ayr was set The sparkling jewel in lowly cot? Eternity will not efface The record dear of time that's past; Thy memory sweet we still embrace, And will as long as life shall last!

III.

Ayr, congealèd to its pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of green; The leafless birch and hawthorn hoar Were planted round the wintry scene; No flowers sprang wanton to be pressed-- No birds sang love on every spray-- But brightest yet o'er all the rest Will ever shine thy natal day!

IV.

Still o'er thy songs our rapture wakes, And memory broods with miser care! Time but their music sweeter makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. O Burns! Thou dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou again a Highland maid, Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?

WISHING--FISHING.

I.

Full well I know that wishing never yet has brought The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart, And that anticipated pleasure, when at last 'tis caught, Has naught but transitory solace to impart; And yet, somehow, I've ever felt and thought A joy there is that never can depart-- (As long as we are capable of feeling--wishing)-- And that's to leave dull care behind, and--go a-fishing!

II.

Some dream of wealth--of place--of fame-- And fleeting shadows vainly they pursue; And some have sighed to win a deathless name Where fields of carnage corpses thickly strew, And shrieks of agony are heard 'mid smoke and flame; But these are dizzy heights attained by few; So, when Dame Fortune is her favors dishing, I hope that I'll get mine in ample time to--go a-fishing!

III.

Oh, was there ever any sweeter dream, Or music with a tone that's more entrancing, Than just to wander where some mountain stream Is o'er the rocks and polished pebbles dancing? And nothing short of heaven itself, I ween, Is like the moment when, his scales all glancing, You see the happy consummation of your wishing, And catch the very fish for which you have been fishing!

POE.

I.

Oh, melancholy child of want and woe! A brilliant meteor in an ebon sky! Thy soul's weird music all did flow From heart-strings touched by destiny!

II.

The Raven, perched above thy chamber door, Responsive croaked with a prophetic word-- For in the realm of song may "Nevermore" Such strains as thine by mortal ear be heard!

III.

Where now doth that proud spirit dwell, Whose earthly days were clouded o'er with gloom? In regions with the sweet-voiced "Israfel," Where never-fading flowerets bloom?

IV.

Dost rest within some "distant Aidenn, Beyond the Night's Plutonian shore? And clasp again a sainted maiden Whom the angels name Lenore?"

V.

Yes, "echo through the corridors of Time" Will have a tone that ages yet will know, And blend with all that's beautiful--sublime-- The deathless name of Edgar Allan Poe!