SECOND EPISTLE, To J. SC*D**K then at Perth. JUNE, 1804. ___ LET those who never felt
its flame, Say
friendship is an empty name; Such selfish, cauld Philosophy, Forever I disclaim: It
soothes the soul with grief opprest, Half-cures
the care-distemper’d breast, And in the jocund, happy hour, Gives joy a higher zest. All
nature sadden’d at our parting hour, Winds
plaintive howl’d, clouds weeping dropt a show’r, Our fields look’d dead—as if they’d
said, “We
ne'er shall see him Tho’
fate an’ fortune threw their darts, Envying
us your high deserts, They well might tear you from our
arms, But never from When
spring buds forth in vernal show’rs, When
summer comes array’d in flow’rs, Or autumn kind, from Ceres’ horn, Her grateful bounty pours; Or
bearded Winter curls his brow-- I’ll
often fondly think on you, And on our happy days and nights, With pleasing
back-cast view. If
e’er in musing mood ye stray, Alang
the banks of classic Tay, Think on our walks by Stanely Tow'r, And Sage Gleniffer brae. Think
on our lang-syne happy hours, Spent
where the burn wild rapid pours, And o'er the horrid dizzy steep, Dashes her mountain stores, Think
on our walks by sweet Greenlaw, By
woody hill, and birken shaw, Where nature strews her choicest
sweets, To mak’ the
landscape braw. And
think on rural Ferguslie, Its
plantins green, Such fairy scenes, May please the
mental e'e. Yon
mentor, Geordie Zimmerman, Agrees
exactly with our plan, That partial hours
of Solitude Exalt the soul of man. So,
oft retir’d from strife and din, Let’s
shun the jarring ways of men, And seek serenity and peace By stream and
woody glen. But
ere a few short summers gae, Your
friend will mix his kindred clay, For fell disease tugs at my breast, To hurry me away. Yet
while life’s bellows bears to blaw, Till
life’s last lang-fetch’d breath I draw, I’ll often fondly think on you, And mind your kindness a’.
Now
fare-ye-weel! still may ye find, A
friend congenial to your mind, To share your joys, and half your
woes, Warm,
sympathizing, kind. |