TO JAMES SKENE, Esq. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. An ancient minstrel sagely said, "Where is the life which late we led ?". That motley clown, in Arden wood, Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed, Not even that clown could amplify, On this trite text, so long as I. Eleven years we now may tell, Since we have known each other well; Since, riding side by side, our hand First drew the voluntary brand; And sure, through many a varied scene, Unkindness never came between. Away these winged years have flown, To join the mass of ages gone; And though deep marked, like all below, While here, at home, my narrower ken Somewhat of manners saw, and men ; Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Yet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem The recollection of a dream; So still we glide down to the sea Of fathomless eternity. Even now it scarcely seems a day, Since first I tuned this idle lay; A task so often thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, And Blackhouse heights, and Ettricke Pen, Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. Earlier than wont along the sky, Mixed with the rack, the snow-mists fly: The shepherd, who, in summer sun, Has something of our envy won, As thou with pencil, I with pen, The features traced of hill and glen; Viewed the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumbered o'er his tattered book, Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er the lessened tide ;— At midnight now, the snowy plain Finds sterner labour for the swain. When red hath set the beamless sun, Through heavy vapours dank and dun; When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, Hears, half asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, Against the casement's tinkling pane; The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, To shelter in the brake and rocks, Are warnings which the shepherd ask To dismal, and to dangerous task. Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, The blast may sink in mellowing rain; Till, dark above, and white below, Decided drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go. Where fiercest though the tempest blow, Least deeply lies the drift below. The blast, that whistles o'er the fells, Stiffens his locks to icicles; Oft he looks back, while streaming far, His cottage window seems a star, Loses its feeble gleam, and then Turns patient to the blast again, And, facing to the tempest's sweep, Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep : |