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Benumbing death is in the gale:

       His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,

       Close to the hut, no more his own,

       Close to the aid he sought in vain,

       The morn may find the stiffened swain:

       The widow sees, at dawning pale,

       His orphans raise their feeble wail:

       And, close beside him, in the snow,

       Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,

       Couches upon his master’s breast,

       And licks his cheek to break his rest.

       Who envies now the shepherd’s lot,

       His healthy fare, his rural cot,

       His summer couch by greenwood tree,

       His rustic kirn’s loud revelry,

       His native hill-notes tuned on high,

       To Marion of the blithesome eye;

       His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,

       And all Arcadia’s golden creed?

       Changes not so with us, my Skene,

       Of human life the varying scene?

       Our youthful summer oft we see

       Dance by on wings of game and glee,

       While the dark storm reserves its rage,

       Against the winter of our age:

       As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,

       His manhood spent in peace and joy;

       But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,

       Called ancient Priam forth to arms.

       Then happy those, since each must drain

       His share of pleasure, share of pain,

       Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,

       To whom the mingled cup is given;

       Whose lenient sorrows find relief,

       Whose joys are chastened by their grief.

       And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,

       When thou, of late, wert doomed to twine -

       Just when thy bridal hour was by -

       The cypress with the myrtle tie.

       Just on thy bride her sire had smiled,

       And blessed the union of his child,

       When Love must change its joyous cheer,

       And wipe Affection’s filial tear.

       Nor did the actions next his end,

       Speak more the father than the friend:

       Scarce had lamented Forbes paid

       The tribute to his minstrel’s shade;

       The tale of friendship scarce was told,

       Ere the narrator’s heart was cold -

       Far may we search before we find

       A heart so manly and so kind!

       But not around his honoured urn

       Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;

       The thousand eyes his care had dried,

       Pour at his name a bitter tide;

       And frequent falls the grateful dew,

       For benefits the world ne’er knew.

       If mortal charity dare claim

       The Almighty’s attributed name,

       Inscribe above his mouldering clay,

       “The widow’s shield, the orphan’s stay.”

       Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem

       My verse intrudes on this sad theme;

       For sacred was the pen that wrote,

       “Thy father’s friend forget thou not:”

       And grateful title may I plead,

       For many a kindly word and deed,

       To bring my tribute to his grave:-

       ‘Tis little—but ‘tis all I have.

       To thee, perchance, this rambling strain

       Recalls our summer walks again;

       When, doing naught—and, to speak true,

       Not anxious to find aught to do -

       The wild unbounded hills we ranged,

       While oft our talk its topic changed,

       And, desultory as our way,

       Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.

       Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,

       No effort made to break its trance,

       We could right pleasantly pursue

       Our sports in social silence too;

       Thou gravely labouring to portray

       The blighted oak’s fantastic spray;

       I spelling o’er, with much delight,

       The legend of that antique knight,

       Tirante by name, ycleped the White.

       At either’s feet a trusty squire,

       Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,

       Jealous, each other’s motions viewed,

       And scarce suppressed their ancient feud.

       The laverock whistled from the cloud;

       The stream was lively, but not loud;

       From the white thorn the Mayflower shed

       Its dewy fragrance round our head:

       Not Ariel lived more merrily

       Under the blossomed bough than we.

       And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,

       When winter stript the summer’s bowers.

       Careless we heard, what now I hear,

       The wild blast sighing deep and drear,

       When fires were bright, and lamps beamed gay,

       And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

       And he was held a laggard soul,

       Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl.

       Then he, whose absence we deplore,

       Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore,

       The longer missed, bewailed the more;

       And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae,

       And one whose name I may not say -

       For not Mimosa’s tender tree

       Shrinks sooner from the touch than he -

       In merry chorus well combined,

       With laughter drowned the whistling wind.

       Mirth was within; and Care without

       Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.

       Not but amid the buxom scene

       Some grave discourse might intervene -

       Of the good horse that bore him best,

       His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:

       For, like mad Tom’s, our chiefest care,

       Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

       Such nights we’ve had; and, though the game

       Of manhood be more sober tame,

       And though the field-day, or the drill,

       Seem less important now—yet still

      

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