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,

Close to the aid he sought in vain,

The morn may find the stiffened swain:
His widow sees, at dawning pale,

His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,
his master's breast,

Couches upon

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;

* The Scottish harvest-home.

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,

Called ancient Priam forth to arms.

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 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,

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

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.

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
Our sports in social silence too;
Thou gravely labouring to pourtray
The blighted oak's fantastic spray
I spelling o'er, with much delight,
The legend of that antique knight,
Tirante by name, ycleped the White.
At either's feet a trusty squire,

Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire
Jealous, each other's motions viewed,
And scarce suppressed their ancient feud.

The laverock whistled from the cloud;

The stream was lively, but not loud;