Who now could stand upon the banks
Of thine own "silver Tweed?"
Nor deem they heard thy "warrior's horn,"
Or heard thy "shepherd’s reed?"
Immutable as Nature’s claim,
The ground is hallowed by thy name.
I cannot bear to see the shelf
Where ranged thy volumes stand,
And think that mute is now thy lip,
And cold is now thy hand;
That, hadst thou been more common clay,
So soon thou hadst not passed away.
For thou didst die before thy time,
The tenement o’erwrought,
The heart consumed by its desire,
The body worn by thought;
Thyself the victim of thy shrine,
A glorious sacrifice was thine.
Alas, it is too soon for this—
The future for thy fame;
But now we mourn, as if we mourned
A father’s cherished claim.
Ah! time may bid the laurel wave—
We can but weep above thy grave.
46
