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XXXVI. WALTER SCOTT AT THE TOMB OF THE STUARTS IN SAINT PETER'S.

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The wild deer, when the shaft is in his side
Seeks his first lair beneath the forest hoar:
Drawn back from reboant deeps the exhausted tide
Breathes his last sob on the forsaken shore:
When on the village green the sports have died
The child stands knocking at his grandsire's door:
So stands by this far tomb of Scotland's pride
Her greatest son, death-doomed, and travel-sore.

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So stand, last Singer of the Heroic Age!
Dead are those years so loyal, brave, and high
That whilome blazoned History's Missal page,
Ring yet through thy glad Minstrel-Breviary:
Old Pilgrim, ended is thy pilgrimage
This hour. The shadows round thee close: now die!