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The silver moon, far in the west,Sinks in her cloudy bed to rest,Where deeper hang the gath'ring shades,As by degrees her pale light fades:Soft show'rs unheard, and scarcely seen,Descend upon the with'ring green;Slow rolling mists the landscape shroud,"And kerchief'd in a homely cloud,"The dewy morn, through twilight pale,Smiles, sadly sweet, on hill and dale.
Oh! loveliest scene, and yet so sad,—More dear to me than sun-shine glad!The bitter, troublous cares of life,And all their turmoil, all their strife,Seem slumb'ring with the glare of day,And meditation's holy sway,Sublimes to loftier views the mind,To wonder, love, and praise resign'd.
Where now, the proud, the scornful look,That timid sorrow scarce can brook—The bitter taunt, the cruel sneer,That even friendship's face can wear—
water. Those alluded to above, take their name from a place called Boister, in the Island of Brassa, on the coast of which they are situated. The roar of the waves over them is heard, even in the calmest night, at Lerwick; and the awful effect it produces, when no living object interrupts the tranquillity of the scene, and every other sound is hushed, may he more easily imagined than described.
