то 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 view'd, Not even that clown could amplify, Since we have known each other well; 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 mark'd, like all below, Though thou o'er realms and seas hast rang'd, While here, at home, my narrower ken Somewhat of manner saw, and men ; Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Fever'd the progress of these years, 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, A task so often thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, That now, November's dreary gale, Whose voice inspired my opening tale, That same November gale once more Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky, Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen, Earlier than wont along the sky, Or idly busied him to guide When red hath set the beamless sun, Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, To shelter in the brake and rocks, And forth the hardy swain must go. Long, with dejected look and whine, The blast, that whistles o'er the fells, Oft he looks back, while, streaming far, Turns patient to the blast again, And, facing to the tempest's sweep, Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. If fails his heart, if his limbs fail, Benumbing death is in the gale; His paths, his landmarks, all unknown, Close to the hut, no more his own, |