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.