Our youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, His share of pleasure, share of pain,- To whom the mingled cup is given; 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, M 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. 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 For sacred was the pen that wrote, "Thy father's friend forgot 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 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, 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 Thou gravely labouring to pourtray The blighted oak's fantastic spray; The legend of that antique knight, · 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. The longer missed, bewailed 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,— 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― |