Thou whose bright sun now gilds the Orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;
The mite high Heaven bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share.
Robert Burns, 1750–1796.
SONNET.
Sheath’d is the river as it glideth by,
Frost-pearl’d are all the boughs in forests old,
The sheep are huddling close upon the wold,