Earlier than wont along the sky,
Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists fly;
The shepherd who, in summer sun,
Had something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen;-1
He who, outstretch'd the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
View'd the light clouds with vacant look,
Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book,
Or idly busied him to guide
His anglè o'er the lessen'd tide ;—
At midnight now, the snowy plain
Finds sterner labour for the swain.
When red hath set the beamless sun,2
Through heavy vapours dank and dun;
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm
Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain,
Against the casement's tinkling pane;
The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,
To shelter in the brake and rocks,
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal and to dangerous task.
1 [Various illustrations of the Poetry and Novels of Sir Walter Scott, from designs by Mr. Skene, have since been published.]
2 [MS." When red hath set the evening sun,
And loud winds speak the storm begun."]
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;
Till, dark above, and white below,1
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain musť go.
Long, with dejected look and whine,
To leave the hearth his dogs repine;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreathes the plaid:
His flock he gathers, and he guides,
To open downs, and mountain-sides,
Where fiercest though the tempest blow,
Least deeply lies the drift below.
The blast, that whistles o'er the fells,2
Stiffens his locks to icicles;
Oft he looks back, while streaming far,
His cottage window seems a star,3-
Loses its feeble gleam,—and then
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:
1 [MS.-"Till thickly drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go,
While, with dejected look and whine," &c.]
2 [MS." The frozen blast that sweeps the fells."]
8 [MS." His cottage window beams a star,— But soon he loses it,-and then
Turns patient to his task again."]
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffen'd swain: 1
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,
Couches upon his master's breast,2
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 rustic kirn's loud revelry,
His native hill-notes, tuned on high,
To Marion of the blithesome eye; *
1[MS." The morn shall find the stiffen'd swain: His widow sees, at morning pale,
His children rise, and raise their wail."]
I cannot help here mentioning, that, on the night in which these lines were written, suggested, as they were, by a sudden fall of snow, beginning after sunset, an unfortunate man perished exactly in the manner here described, and his body was next morning found close to his own house. The accident happened within five miles of the farm of Ashestiel.
[Compare the celebrated description of a man perishing in the snow, in Thomson's Winter.]
2 [MS." Couches upon his frozen breast."]
8 The Scottish Harvest-home.
4 [MS." His native wild notes' melody,
To Marion's blithely blinking eye."]
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,
And all Arcadia's golden creed?
Changes not so with us, my Skene,
Of human life the varying scene?
Our youthful summer oft we see
Dance by on wings of game and glee,
While the dark storm reserves its rage,
Against the winter of our age:
As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,
His manhood spent in peace and joy ;
But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,
Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms.2
Then happy those, since each must drain
His share of pleasure, share of pain,-
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,
To whom the mingled cup is given;
Whose lenient sorrows find relief,
Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief.
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,
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,3
And bless'd the union of his child,
1 [MS.-" Our youthful summer oft we see
Dance by on wings of mirth and glee,
While the dark storm reserves its rage,
To crush the winter of our age."]
2 [MS." Call'd forth his feeble age to arms."]
3 [MS." Scarce on thy bride her Sire had smiled."]
When love must change its joyous cheer,
And wipe affection's filial tear.
Nor did the actions next his end,1
Speak more the father than the friend :
Scarce had lamented Forbes 2 paid
The tribute to his Minstrel's shade;
The tale of friendship scarce was told,
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 honor'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."
[MS." But even the actions next his end,
Spoke the fond sire and faithful friend."]
2 Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Baronet; unequalled, perhaps, in the degree of individual affection entertained for him by his friends, as well, as in the general respect and esteem of Scotland at large. His Life of Beattie, whom he befriended and patronized in life, as well as celebrated after his decease, was not long published, before the benevolent and affectionate biographer was called to follow the subject of his narrative. This melancholy event very shortly succeeded the marriage of the friend, to whom this introduction is addressed, with one of Sir William's daughters.
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