THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Rest with the noble dead
In Dryburgh's solemn pile,
Where sleep the peer and warrior bold,
And mitred abbots stern and old,
Along the statued isle;
Where, stain'd with dust of buried years,
The rude sarcophagus appears
In mould imbedded deep;
And Scotia's skies of sparkling blue
Stream the oriel windows through,
Where ivied masses creep;
And, touch'd with symmetry sublime,
The moss-clad towers that mock at time
Their mouldering legends keep.
And yet methinks thou shouldst have chose
Thy latest couch at fair Melrose,
Whence burst thy first, most ardent song,
And swept with wildering force along
Where Tweed in silver flows.
There the young moonbeams, quivering faint
O'er mural tablet sculptured quaint,
Reveal a lordly race;
And knots of roses richly wrought,
And tracery light as poet's thought,
The cluster'd columns grace.
