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; 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 honour'd 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 "Thy father's friend forgot thou not :" 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 Recals our summer walks again; When doing nought, and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do, The wild unbounded hills we ranged, While oft our talk its topic changed, Ranged unconfined from grave to gay. No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue 180 Thou gravely labouring to pourtray Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, The stream was lively, but not loud; Its dewy fragrance round our head: Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossom'd bough, than we. And blithesome nights, too, have been ours, When Winter stript the summer's bowers; 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 shun'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, 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 Not but amid the buxom scene Some grave discourse might intervene 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 Such may we hope to share again. strain The sprightly thought inspires my ; * See King Lear. |