INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST.
11
His Gothic harp has o'er you rung;
205The Bard you deign'd to praise, your deathless names has sung.
205The Bard you deign'd to praise, your deathless names has sung.
Stay yet, illusion, stay a while,
My wilder'd fancy still beguile!
From this high theme how can I part,
Ere half unloaded is my heart!
210For all the tears e'er sorrow drew,
And all the raptures fancy knew,
And all the keener rush of blood,
That throbs through bard in bard-like mood,
Were here a tribute mean and low,
215Though all their mingled streams could flow—
Woe, wonder, and sensation high,
In one spring-tide of ecstasy!-
It will not be—it may not last—
The vision of enchantment's past:
220Like frostwork in the morning ray,
The fancied fabric melts away;
Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone,
And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone;
And, lingering last, deception dear,
225The choir's high sounds die on my ear.
Now slow return the lonely down,
The silent pastures bleak and brown,
The farm begirt with copsewood wild
The gambols of each frolic child,
230Mixing their shrill cries with the tone
Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on.
My wilder'd fancy still beguile!
From this high theme how can I part,
Ere half unloaded is my heart!
210For all the tears e'er sorrow drew,
And all the raptures fancy knew,
And all the keener rush of blood,
That throbs through bard in bard-like mood,
Were here a tribute mean and low,
215Though all their mingled streams could flow—
Woe, wonder, and sensation high,
In one spring-tide of ecstasy!-
It will not be—it may not last—
The vision of enchantment's past:
220Like frostwork in the morning ray,
The fancied fabric melts away;
Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone,
And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone;
And, lingering last, deception dear,
225The choir's high sounds die on my ear.
Now slow return the lonely down,
The silent pastures bleak and brown,
The farm begirt with copsewood wild
The gambols of each frolic child,
230Mixing their shrill cries with the tone
Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on.
Prompt on unequal tasks to run,
Thus Nature disciplines her son:
Meeter, she says, for me to stray,
235And waste the solitary day,
In plucking from yon fen the reed,
And watch it floating down the Tweed;
Or idly list the shrilling lay,
With which the milkmaid cheers her way,
Thus Nature disciplines her son:
Meeter, she says, for me to stray,
235And waste the solitary day,
In plucking from yon fen the reed,
And watch it floating down the Tweed;
Or idly list the shrilling lay,
With which the milkmaid cheers her way,
