University of Virginia Library

A bright-eyed boy, with cheeks of rosy red,
His curling locks hung clustering 'round his head;
Just at that age when from th' enquiring eyes
Intelligence first darts, and hope supplies
An eager ken, which, thro' their lustre shot,
Impression makes by parents ne'er forgot.
Just at this age was Allan, when his Sire,
Victim of folly, died; with him expire
His hopes, his sole support; his prospects all;
They, with his Sire, in one sad ruin fall.
Overwhelm'd with debt; his lands all sold, save few
Which mortgag'd stood; the mansion mortgag'd too;
Too deeply mortgag'd all, for many a year
Of rigid, starv'd, economy to clear.
Allan no guardian had; his father died
Sudden, intestate: struck by wounded pride,
And hollow friendship's bitter, biting, blast;
And Allan's fate, which ev'ry hour o'ercast,
Poison'd his withering hope, and stung him to the last.
Allan no guardian had; no friend, yes—one—
Friend to the father, father to the son;
The poor old steward, in that mansion, who
“From youth to age in reverend service grew.”
Small were his savings; he for wealth ne'er strove,
Serving far less for lucre than for love.
Small were his savings, for though small his gain,
Still would he spare for poverty and pain;
Small were his savings, yet the sage had spar'd,
And Allan's wants were now his sole regard:
For lands and mansion to new owners fall,
And Allan's driven from his father's hall!
Lender and law the small remains divide
Of folly's pageant sacrifice to pride;
Thistle and cockle o'er the land wav'd all,
And grew the green grass in his father's hall.
This Allan saw, e'er man's estate he knew,
This Allan saw, and shudder'd at the view,
At once a lesson, and a loss he saw,
How pride and folly desolation draw;
The loss he felt; the lesson seem'd in vain,
For nought to Allan but his hopes remain.
The land and mansion to new owners fall,
And Allan's driven from his father's hall;
Yet wept not Allan; but the tear he dried
Of poor old Simon, hobbling by his side;
His reverend locks with speechless grief who shook,
And oft he turn'd to take a last, last, look
Of that old mansion, where his youth was spent,
And grew to age with comfort and content;
Of that old mansion where he nurs'd the boy,
Heir to his master, but no heir to joy;
Of that old mansion where, at life's last gasp,
He felt his honour'd master's icy grasp;
Heard the choak'd voice.—“O, Simon, all, all's o'er,
My boy! O save my boy!”—he spoke no more;
His eyes the rest,—“I'll guard him,” Simon cried—
The Knight look'd gratitude, and groan'd, and died!