XXIV.

Blackford! on whose uncultured breast, Among the broom, and thorn, and whin, A truant-boy, I sought the nest, Or listed, as I lay at rest, While rose on breezes thin, The murmur of the city crowd, And, from his steeple jangling loud, Saint Giles’s mingling din. Now, from the summit to the plain, Waves all the hill with yellow grain And o’er the landscape as I look, Nought do I see unchanged remain, Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. To me they make a heavy moan, Of early friendships past and gone.