Lines Suggested by the Third Meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science Held at Cambridge, in June, 1833. By the late William Sotheby ... With a Short Memoir of his Life |
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 | Lines Suggested by the Third Meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science |  |
Harp of the North!—Death's ruthless stroke,
Thy chord that witch'd the world has broke,
And thou in Dryburgh's hallow'd gloom
Liest silent on the Minstrel's tomb;
Thy chord is broke, but ne'er shall die,
The echo of his minstrelsy.
Drawn by the magic of his rhyme,
Wild, romantic, bold, sublime,
Not Caledonia's sons alone,
The race of her poetic zone,
But in far Dryburgh's still retreat
The pilgrims of the world shall meet:
And tell of Him whose gifted lay
Held o'er the heart resistless sway;
Of Him, the painter of the mind,
Of Him, whose portrait of mankind,
The lights, the shades, the mingled strife,
Each hue of many-colour'd life,
In bold similitude display'd
The living man that Nature made.
Thy chord that witch'd the world has broke,
And thou in Dryburgh's hallow'd gloom
Liest silent on the Minstrel's tomb;
Thy chord is broke, but ne'er shall die,
The echo of his minstrelsy.
Drawn by the magic of his rhyme,
Wild, romantic, bold, sublime,
Not Caledonia's sons alone,
The race of her poetic zone,
But in far Dryburgh's still retreat
The pilgrims of the world shall meet:
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Held o'er the heart resistless sway;
Of Him, the painter of the mind,
Of Him, whose portrait of mankind,
The lights, the shades, the mingled strife,
Each hue of many-colour'd life,
In bold similitude display'd
The living man that Nature made.
Scott, thou didst trance in deep delight
The summer day and winter night,
Yet, Bard! thy harp had higher pow'r
Than witcheries of the passing hour—
Its tone could, like a Seraph's lyre,
Draw from the breast each base desire;
Could rouse the passions, yet controul;
Could soothe, yet elevate the soul;
And to the world's tired slave impart
The freshness of thy feeling heart.
The summer day and winter night,
Yet, Bard! thy harp had higher pow'r
Than witcheries of the passing hour—
Its tone could, like a Seraph's lyre,
Draw from the breast each base desire;
Could rouse the passions, yet controul;
Could soothe, yet elevate the soul;
And to the world's tired slave impart
The freshness of thy feeling heart.
Yet though thy lay had power to bind,
In chain of sympathy, mankind,
And on the universe imprest
Each image glowing in thy breast;
While o'er the world the spell was thrown
Scotland! his heart was thine alone.—
To thee the patriot passion given,
Thy rocks, thy lakes, his earthly heaven.
E'en when Italia's treacherous gale
Lured to the Syren bay his sail,
While round him breathed from every bower
The fragrance of the orange flower,
“Land of the mountain and the flood,”
Thy image still before him stood;
And when life's sunshine was o'ercast,
Ne'er from his dream that vision past.—
In chain of sympathy, mankind,
And on the universe imprest
Each image glowing in thy breast;
xli
Scotland! his heart was thine alone.—
To thee the patriot passion given,
Thy rocks, thy lakes, his earthly heaven.
E'en when Italia's treacherous gale
Lured to the Syren bay his sail,
While round him breathed from every bower
The fragrance of the orange flower,
“Land of the mountain and the flood,”
Thy image still before him stood;
And when life's sunshine was o'ercast,
Ne'er from his dream that vision past.—
His prayer was heard—to view once more,
While Death yet paused, his haunts of yore,
Where Tweed his course romantic leads
Mid Abbotsford's delightful meads;
Or where the woods he planted spread
Their grateful shadow o'er his head.—
While Death yet paused, his haunts of yore,
Where Tweed his course romantic leads
Mid Abbotsford's delightful meads;
Or where the woods he planted spread
Their grateful shadow o'er his head.—
His prayer was heard—he sunk to rest
Beneath that roof where life was blest,—
Sunk in their arms whose ceaseless care
Watch'd o'er a Father's silver hair,
While his last look on them reposed,
And Death in peace his eyelid closed.—
Beneath that roof where life was blest,—
Sunk in their arms whose ceaseless care
Watch'd o'er a Father's silver hair,
xlii
And Death in peace his eyelid closed.—
He rests in peace; but Scotland! thou
Low bent in sorrow o'er his brow,—
Thou realm! that glories in his birth,
Now, o'er him, in his native earth
Raise in proud Dryburgh's hallow'd aisle
The Northern Bard's sepulchral pile.—
Yet not the sculptor's utmost art
That to the rock can life impart,
But Scott's imperishable page
Shall spread his name from age to age.
What needs it—where his relics lie—
The pomp of idle eulogy?
One word shall consecrate the stone,
Immortal Scott, thy name, alone!
Low bent in sorrow o'er his brow,—
Thou realm! that glories in his birth,
Now, o'er him, in his native earth
Raise in proud Dryburgh's hallow'd aisle
The Northern Bard's sepulchral pile.—
Yet not the sculptor's utmost art
That to the rock can life impart,
But Scott's imperishable page
Shall spread his name from age to age.
What needs it—where his relics lie—
The pomp of idle eulogy?
One word shall consecrate the stone,
Immortal Scott, thy name, alone!
| Lines Suggested by the Third Meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science | |