Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appall'd discoverer, with a sigh,
Looks round to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fall'n, that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recall'd the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remember'd, too, the very day
On which the traveller pass'd this way.
But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This dog had been, through three months'
A dweller in that savage place!
Yes, proof was plain, that since the day
When this ill-fated traveller died,
The dog had watch'd about the spot,
Or by his master's side:
How nourish'd here through such long time,
He knows Who gave that love sublime,
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate!
NCE on a time, a certain man was found
That had a pond of water in his ground:
A fine large pond of water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his turn for many a year.
Yet so it was, a strange unhappy dread
Of wanting water seiz'd the fellow's head:
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear his pond should sink.
Perpetually tormented with this thought,
He never ventur'd on a hearty draught;
Consuming all his time and strength away,
To make his pond rise higher every day.
In a wet season he would skip about,
Placing his buckets under ev'ry spout;
From falling show'rs collecting fresh supply,
And grudging ev'ry cloud that passed by;
Cursing the dryness of the times each hour,
Altho' it rain'd as fast as it could pour.
Then he would wade thro' ev'ry dirty spot,
Where any little moisture could be got;
And when he had done draining of a bog,
Still kept himself as dirty as a hog:
And cried, whene'er folks blam'd him, "What d'ye mean?
It costs a world of water to be clean!"
If some poor neighbour craved to slake his thirst,
"What rob my pond! I'll see the rogue hang'd first
A burning shame, these vermin of the poor
Should creep unpunish'd thus about my door!
As if I had not frogs and toads enow,
That sink my pond whatever I can do."
The sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always in quest of matters that were wet:
Betimes he rose to sweep the morning dew,
And rested late to catch the evening too;
With soughs and troughs he labour'd to enrich
The rising pond from every neighbouring ditch;
With soughs, and troughs, and pipes, and cuts, and
sluices,
From growing plants he suck'd the very juices;
He left, in short, for this beloved plunder,
No stone unturn'd that could have water under.
Sometimes, when forced to quit his awkward toil,
And sore against his will- to rest awhile,
Then straight he took his book, and down he sat
To calculate th' expenses he was at;
How much he suffer'd, at a mod❜rate guess,
From all those ways by which the pond grew less;
For as to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckon'd-not a single figure:
He knew a wise old saying, which he maintain'd,
That 'twas bad luck to count what one had gained.
"First for myself-my daily charges here
Cost a prodigious quantity a year:
But things are come to such a pass, indeed
We spend ten times the water that we need;
People are grown with washing, cleansing, rinsing,
So finical and nice, past all convincing;
So many proud fantastic modes, in short,
Are introduced, that my poor pond pays for't.
Not but I could be well enough content
With what, upon my own account, is spent ;
But those large articles, from whence I
reap
No kind of profit, strike me on a heap:
What a vast deal each moment, at a sup,
This ever thirsty Earth itself drinks up!
Such holes! and gaps! Alas! my pond provides
Scarce for its own unconscionable sides:
Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many creatures as it keeps alive!
Then all the birds that fly along the air
Light at my pond, and come in for a share:
Item, at ev'ry puff of wind that blows,
Away at once the surface of it
goes : The rest, in exhalations to the sun
One month's fair weather-and I am undone."
This life he led for many a year together;
Grown old and grey in watching of his weather;
Meagre as Death itself, till this same Death
Stopt, as the saying is, his vital breath;
For as th' old man was carrying to his field
A heavier burden than he well could wield,
He miss'd his footing, or in some way fumbled
In tumbling of it in—but in he tumbled:
Mighty desirous to get out again,
He scream'd and scrambled, but 'twas all in vain:
The place was grown so very deep and wide,
Nor bottom of it could he feel, nor side,
And so- i' the middle of his pond-he died.
What think ye now from this imperfect sketch,
My friends, of such a miserable wretch?
"Why, 'tis a wretch, we think, of your own making;
No fool can be supposed in such a taking:
Your own warm fancy." Nay, but warm or cool,
The world abounds with many such a fool:
The choicest ills, the greatest torments, sure
Are those, which numbers labour to endure.
"What! for a pond?" Why, call it an estate :
You change the name, but realise the fate.
30. MELROSE ABBEY.
[From THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.]
IF thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress alternately
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;
Then go-but go alone the while
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!
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