THOUGH HE IS UNHAPPY, HIS LOVE REMAINS EVER UNCHANGED My sixteenth year of sighs its course has run, I stand alone, already on the brow Where Age descends: and yet it seems as now My time of trial only were begun. 'Tis sweet to love, and good to be undone; Though life be hard, more days may Heaven allow Misfortune to outlive: else d**h may bow The bright head low my loving praise that won. Here am I now who fain would be elsewhere; More would I wish and yet no more I would; I could no more and yet did all I could: And new tears born of old desires declare That still I am as I was wont to be, And that a thousand changes change not me. Macgregor.