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.

VI.

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls 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,

And, desultory as our way,

Ranged unconfined from grave to gay.
Even when it flagg'd, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too;
Thou bravely 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, yclep'd the White.
At either's feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,
Jealous, each other's motions view'd,
And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud.
The laverock whistled from the cloud;
The stream was lively, but not loud;

From the white thorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head:
Not Ariel lived more merrily

Under the blossom'd bough than we.

VII.

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 beam'd gay, And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

And he was held a laggard soul,

Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl.

Then he whose absence we deplore,

Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more,

And thou, and I, and dear loved R-
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 drown'd 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

Such may we hope to share again.

The sprightly thought inspires my strain! And mark, how, like a horseman true, Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH.

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.

I.

Edinburgh.

WHEN dark December glooms the day,

And takes our autumn joys away;

When short and scant the sunbeam throws

Upon the weary waste of snows

A cold and profitless regard,

Like patron on a needy bard;
When silvan occupation's done,
And o'er the chimney rests the gun,
And hang, in idle trophy, near,

The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear;
When wiry terrier, rough and grim,
And greyhound, with his length of limb,
And pointer, now employ'd no more,
Cumber our parlour's narrow floor:
When in his stall the impatient steed
Is long condemn'd to rest and feed;
When from our snow-encircled home
Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam,
Since path is none, save that to bring
The needful water from the spring;
When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd o'er,
Beguiles the dreary hour no more,

And darkling politician, cross'd,
Inveighs against the lingering post,
And answering housewife sore complains
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains;
When such the country cheer, I come,
Well pleased, to seek our city home;
For converse and for books to change
The Forest's melancholy range,
And welcome with renew'd delight
The busy day and social night.

II.

Not here need my desponding rhyme
Lament the ravages of time,
As erst by Newark's riven towers,
And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bowers.
True, — Caledonia's Queen is changed
Since on her dusky summit ranged,
Within its steepy limits pent

By bulwark, line, and battlement,
And flanking towers, and laky flood,
Guarded and garrison'd she stood,
Denying entrance or resort
Save at each tall embattled port;
Above whose arch, suspended, hung
Portcullis spiked with iron prong.
That long is gone, - but not so long
Since, early closed and opening late,
Jealous revolved the studded gate,
Whose task, from eve to morning tide,
A wicket churlishly supplied.
Stern then and steel-girt was thy brow,
Dun-Edin! O, how alter'd now,