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And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted
Ere he his Tale recounted.
Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream! 105
Fulfil thy pensive duty,
For simple hearts thy beauty;
Dear to the common sunshine, no
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM
A Trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the
might Of the whole world's good wishes with him
goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 10
Than sceptered king or laurelled conqueror
A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND.
Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies; The hare's best couching - place for fearless
sleep; Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous
eyes, Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties, 5 No vestige now remains; yet thither creep Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep Their prayers out to the wind and naked sides. Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured
knights, By humble choice of plain old times, are seen 10 Level with earth, among the hillocks green: Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets
ring With jubilate from the choirs of spring!
On The Sight Of A Manse In The South
Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills—
His sky-born warblings—does aught meet your
ken More fit to animate the Poet's pen, Aught that more surely by its aspect fills Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours 10
To his high charge, and truly serving God,
COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM.
The wind is now thy organist;—a clank
what bank Came those live herbs? by what hand were
they sown Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem
Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche
grown, Copy their beauty more and more, and preach, Though mute, of all things blending into one.
There's not a nook within this solemn Pass
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn
gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which
That thought away, turn, and with watchful
eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Bocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than
glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy
quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray 10
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute;
Among the conquests of civility,
"This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose
walls, Eock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured
mists— Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never
rests— Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls— 4 Of Mountains varying momently their crests— Proud be this Land! whose poorest huts are
halls Where Fancy entertains becoming guests; While native song the heroic Past recalls." Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, 9 The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must hide Her trophies, Fancy crouch; the course of
pride Has been diverted, other lessons taught, That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head Where the all-conquering Roman feared to
Composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of Oban.
Dishonoubed Rock and Ruin! that, by law