LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Joanna Baillie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Baillie, Joanna, 1762-1851. Fugitive Verses. By Joanna Baillie, author of “Dramas on the Passions,“ etc. London Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXL. 1840 pp. [119]-127.

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LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT . THOU pleasant noble Bard of fame far spread , Now art thou gathered to the mighty dead , And the dark coffin and the girdling mould All that of thee is perishable , hold . Mourners and mutes and weeping friends are gone ; The pageant closed , and thou art left alone , The covered treasure of a sacred spot , That in the course of time shall never be forgot . Soon those who loved , admired and honoured thee , In death's still garner-house will gathered be ; And great their number is , who have with pride Looked in thy manly face , sat by thy side , And heard thy social converse , — words of cheer , And words of power to charm the listening ear ! At death's despotic summons will they come , Each in his turn from many a different home : From town and muirland , cot and mansion warm , The regal palace , and the homely farm . Soldier and lawyer , merchant , priest and peer , The squire , the laird of forty pounds a-year , The crowned monarch and the simple hind , Did all in thee a meet companion find . For thee the peasant's wife her elbow chair , Smiling a welcome , kindly set , and there With fair exchange of story , saw and jest , Thou wert to her a free and pleasant guest ; While nature , undisguised , repaid thee well For time so spent . She and her mate could tell Unawed , to such a man , their inmost mind ; They claimed thee as their own , their kin their kind . From nature's book thou couldst extract a store , More precious than the scholar's classic lore . And how felt he , whose early rhymes had been To perilous inspection given , and seen By one whose brows were graced from every land , With chaplets twined by many a skilful hand ? How beat his heart , as with the morning ray , To Abbotsford he took his anxious way , Imagining what shortly he must see , Him in whose presence he so soon will be ? And how felt he , thy study's threshold passed , When on thy real face his eyes were cast ? Thine open brow with glow of fancy heated ; Thy purring cat upon the table seated ; Thy sleeping hound that hath his easy lair Close on the precincts of his master's chair ; The honest welcome of that sudden smile , And outstretched hand , misgiving thoughts beguile . But when thy cheerful greeting met his ear , " Fie on thee ! foolish heart , a man like this to fear ! " Thou wert to him , when blushed the eastern sky , A sage of awful mien and lofty eye ; When noon-day heat called forth th' industrious bee , Thou wert the monitor both kind and free ; But when the changeful day was at an end , Thou wert his easy cheerful host , — his friend . When all whose eyes have e'er beheld thy face , Departed are to their long resting-place , Thou wilt exist in all thy magic then , The cherished , speaking friend of living men . In torrid climes , in regions cold and bleak , In every land and language wilt thou speak . Within the sick man's curtained couch thou'lt dwell ; Within the languid prisoner's cheerless cell ; Within the seaman's cabin , where the sound Of many leagues of water murmurs round . The buoyant school-boy will forego his play , In secret nook alone with thee to stray ; The sober sage wise tomes will cast aside , An hour with thee — a pleasant hour to bide . Men of all nations , of all creeds , all ranks , Will owe to thee an endless meed of thanks , Which more than in thy passing , checkered day Of mortal life , they will delight to pay . For who shall virtuous sympathies resign , Or feed foul fancies from a page of thine ? No , none ! thy writings as thy life are pure , And their fair fame and influence will endure . Not so with those where perverse skill pourtrays Distorted , blighting passions ; and displays , Wild , maniac , selfish fiends to be admired , As heroes with sublimest ardour fired . Such are , to what thy faithful pen hath traced , With all the shades of varied nature graced , Like grim cartoons , for Flemish looms prepared , To Titian's or Murillo's forms compared ; Stately or mean , theirs still are forms of truth , Charming , unlearned , and learned — age and youth : Not extacies expressed in critic phrase , But silent smiles of pleasure speak their praise . When those , who now thy recent death deplore , Lie in the dust , thought of and known no more , As poet and romancer , thy great name Will brightly shine with undiminished fame ; And future sons of fancy fondly strive To their compatriots works like thine to give . But of the many who on her wide sea Shall boldly spread their sails to follow thee , More as romancers on thy track will gain , Than those who emulate the poet's strain . A tale like Waverley we yet may con , But shall we read a lay like Marmion ? And fearlessly I say it , though I know The voice of public favour says not so : For story-telling is an art , I ween , Which hath of old most fascinating been , And will be ever , — strong in ready power , To combat languor and the present hour ; And o'er these common foes will oft prevail , When Homer's theme and Milton's song would fail . But strong in both , there is in sooth no need Against thy left hand for thy right to plead : Think as we list , one truth , alas ! is plain , We ne'er shall look upon thy like again . Thy country , bounded by her subject sea , Adds to her fame by giving birth to thee ; In distant lands yon fancied group behold , Where busy traders meet in quest of gold ; Motley and keen , all gathered round a youth , Who simply stands unconscious of the truth , Look at him wistfully , and hark , they speak — The Turk and Jew , Armenian and Greek , Their rapid lips the whispered words betraying — " He's from the land of Walter Scott , " they're saying . That Caledonian , too , with more good will They greet as of thy closer kindred still : But who is he , who , standing by their side , Raises his head with quickly-kindled pride , As if he meant to look the others down ? Ay ; he is from thine own romantic town . Thou art in time's long course a land-mark high , A beacon blazing to the nether sky , To which , as far and wide it shoots its rays , Landsmen and mariners , with wistful gaze , From ship , and shore , and mountain turn their sight , And hail the glorious signal of the night . Oh Dryburgh ! often trode by pilgrim feet Shall be thy hallowed sod ; solemn and sweet , Will be the gentle sorrow uttered there , The whispered blessing and the quiet prayer . Flower , herb , or leaf by children yet unborn Will often from thy verdant turf be torn , And kept in dear memorial of the place Where thou art laid with a departed race ; Where every thing around , tower , turret , tree , River , and glen , and mountain , wood and lea , And ancient ruin , by the moonlight made More stately with alternate light and shade , Thy once beloved Melrose , — all speak of thee , With mingled voices through the gale of morn , Of evening , noon , and night , most sadly borne , A dirge-like wailing , a mysterious moan , That sadly seems to utter " He is gone ! " To God's forgiving mercy and his love — To fellowship with blessed souls above — Bright hosts redeemed by him whose voice of hope Revealed th' immortal spirit's boundless scope — We leave thee , though within its narrow cell , Thy honoured dust must for a season dwell — Our friend , our bard , our brother , — fare thee well ! Hampstead , November , 1832.