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ABBOTSFORD.
ABBOTSFORD.
Master of Abbotsford!
Magician strange and strong
Whose voice of power is heard
By an admiring throng,
From court to peasant's cot,—
We come, but thou art gone,
We speak, thou answerest not,—
Thy work is done.
Thou slumberest with the noble dead,
In Dryburgh's solemn pile,
Amid the peer and warrior bold,
And mitred abbots stern and old,
Who sleep in sculptured aisle,
While Scotia's skies, with azure gleaming,
Are through the oriel window streaming,
Where ivied mosses creep;
And touched with symmetry sublime,
The moss-clad towers that mock at time,
Their mouldering legends keep.
