Had he no friend-no daughter dear, His wandering toil to share and cheer; No son, to be his father's stay, And guide him on the rugged way? ઃઃ Ay, once he had-but he was dead!"Upon the harp he stooped his head, And busied himself the strings withal, In solemn measure, soft and slow, THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO FOURTH. I. SWEET Teviot! on thy silver tide Along thy wild and willowed shore ; As if thy waves, since Time was born, Since first they rolled upon the Tweed, Had only heard the shepherd's reed, Nor started at the bugle-horn. II. Unlike the tide of human time, Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, Retains each grief, retains each crime, Its earliest course was doomed to know; And, darker as it downward bears, Is stained with past and present tears. It still reflects to Memory's eye The hour, my brave, my only boy, Why was not I beside him laid! Enough he died the death of fame; Enough he died with conquering Græme. |