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, Not anxious to find ought 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 Under the blossom'd bough, than we. And blithsome 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, When fires were bright, and lamps beamed gay, And ladies tuned the lovely lay; And he was held a laggard soul, Who shun'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, And one whose name I may not say, For not Mimosa's tender tree Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,— With laughter drowned the whistling wind. For like mad Tom's, our chiefest care, Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. And though the field-day, or the drill, a See King Lear. |