12 The shepherd swain of whom I mention made, On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; The sickle, scythe, or plough he never sway'd: An honest heart was almost all his stock; His drink the living water from the rock: The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock; And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went. 13 From labour, health, from health, contentment, springs; Contentment opes the source of every joy. He envied not, he never thought of kings; Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy; Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy, For on his vows the blameless Phoebe smiled, And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child. 14 No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; Each season look'd delightful, as it pass'd, To the fond husband, and the faithful wife. Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life They never roam'd: secure beneath the storm Which in Ambition's lofty hand is rife, Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. 15 The wight whose tale these artless lines unfold, Was all the offspring of this humble pair: His birth no oracle or seer foretold; No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, Nor aught that might a strange event declare. You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth; The parent's transport, and the parent's care; The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth; And one long summer day of indolence and mirth. 16 And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy: Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy, Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy: Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy; And now his look was most demurely sad; And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. The neighbours stared and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad: Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. 17 But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil he ever fled; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head, Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. 18