11

There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree; Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady; But he, I ween, was of the north countrie; [1]

A nation famed for song and beauty's charms; Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; Patient of toil; serene amidst alarms; Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.

12

The shepherd swain of whom I mention made, On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; The sickle, scythe, or plough he never sway'd: An honest heart was almost all his stock; His drink the living water from the rock: The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock; And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.

13

From labour, health, from health, contentment, springs; Contentment opes the source of every joy.

He envied not, he never thought of kings; Nor from those appet.i.tes sustain'd annoy, That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy; Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smiled, And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child.

14

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; Each season look'd delightful, as it pa.s.s'd, To the fond husband, and the faithful wife.

Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life They never roam'd: secure beneath the storm Which in Ambition's lofty hand is rife, Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.

15

The wight whose tale these artless lines unfold, Was all the offspring of this humble pair: His birth no oracle or seer foretold; No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, Nor aught that might a strange event declare.

You guess each circ.u.mstance of Edwin's birth; The parent's transport, and the parent's care; The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth; And one long summer day of indolence and mirth.

16

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy: Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye.

Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy, Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy: Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy; And now his look was most demurely sad; And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why.

The neighbours stared and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad: Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad.

17

But why should I his childish feats display?

Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head, Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team.

18

The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, To him nor vanity nor joy could bring.

His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed To work the woe of any living thing, By trap, or net; by arrow, or by sling: Those he detested; those he scorn'd to wield; He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field.

And sure the sylvan reign unb.l.o.o.d.y joy might yield.

19

Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine: And sees, on high, amidst the encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine: While waters; woods, and winds in concert join, And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies?

Ah! no; he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.

20

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray, And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn: Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn, Where twilight loves to linger for a while; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, And villager abroad at early toil.

But, lo! the Sun appears, and heaven, earth, ocean smile!

21

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost.

What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view the enormous waste of vapour, toss'd In billows, lengthening to the horizon round, Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd!

And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the h.o.a.r profound!

22

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene.

In darkness, and in storm, he found delight: Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene The southern Sun diffused his dazzling sheen, [2]

Even sad vicissitude amused his soul: And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control.

23

"O ye wild groves! O where is now your bloom?"

(The Muse interprets thus his tender thought) "Your flowers, your verdure and your balmy gloom, Of late so grateful in the hour of drought?

Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake?

Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought?

For now the storm howls mournful through the brake, And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless flake.

24

"Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool, And meads, with life and mirth and beauty crown'd?

Ah! see, the unsightly slime and sluggish pool, Have all the solitary vale imbrown'd; Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound, The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray: And, hark! the river, bursting every mound, Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away.

25

"Yet such the destiny of all on earth!

So flourishes and fades majestic Man.

Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan.

Oh, smile, ye heavens serene! ye mildews wan, Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime, Nor lessen of his life the little span!

Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time, Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.