A BEECH-TREE o'er the mill-stream spreads its boughs, In many an eddy whirls the wave beneath; From Stony-bank the west wind's perfumed breath Sighs past—'tis Summer's gentle evening close: Smooth Esk, above thy tide the midges weave, Mixing and meeting oft, their fairy dance; While o'er the crown of Arthur's Seat a glance Of crimson plays—the sunshine's glorious leave; Except the blackbird from the dim Shire Wood, All else is still. So passes human life From us away—a dream within a dream: Ah! where are they, who with me, by this stream, Roamed ere this world was known as one of strife? Comes not an answer from the solitude! |