Close to the aid he sought in vain, The morn may find the stiffen'd swain: His orphans raise their feeble wail; And licks his cheek, to break his rest. Who envies now the shepherd's lot, His healthy fare, his rural cot, His summer couch by greenwood tree, His native hill-notes, tuned on high, Changes not so with us, my Skene, Of human life the varying scene? The Scottish Harvest-home. Our youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, rage, Against the winter of our age: But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. Then happy those, since each must drain Then happy those, beloved of heaven, Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. When thou of late wert doom'd to twine, Just when thy bridal hour was by, The cypress with the myrtle tie. Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled, And bless'd the union of his child, 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 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, "The widow's shield, the orphan's stay." Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem For sacred was the pen that wrote, 66 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. To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recals our summer walks again; When, doing nought,-and, to speak true, Thou gravely labouring to pourtray Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, The stream was lively, but not loud; Under the blossom'd bough, than we. 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, |