SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Magician of old Scotia's clime,
The sweet, the powerful, the sublime,
Whose lyre could rule even wrinkled care,
And stir the reverie of Despair,
Who shall its broken strings repair?
Who wake the lay, so high resounding
With clash of lance and war-horse bounding,
And bannered host, with trumpet shrieking,
And battle-field, in carnage reeking?
Who touch with cadence, soft and clear,
The minstrel song to lady's ear,
While the young moonbeam faintly throws
Its silver light o'er fair Melrose.
Then haughty Marmion's fitful strife,
The canvas glowing into life,
The gliding bark from hallowed shore,
That Hilda's cloistered maidens bore,
The dungeon vault, the stifled wail,
The sightless judge, the victim pale,
King James, amid the festive throng,
The wily Lady Heron's song,
The marshalled field, the stirring drum,
The smoke-wrapped hosts, that rushing come,
The fallen knight's forsaken sigh,
His reinless war-steed sweeping by—
Thy mighty strain the palm hath won
From earthquake-echoing Marathon,
