Marmion

  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;

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.

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, 
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 
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 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 
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 
Recalls our summer walks again;

When, doing nought,-and, to speak true,